


The Brave and the Bold

by manifestingwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angels, Blood, Character Death, Child Murder, Conspiracy, DCBB17, DEAN AND CAS DONT DIE, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, Dragons, F/M, Fire, Graphic, IF YOU DONT WANT TO READ BECAUSE OF MCD ITS NOT THAT BAD I PROMISE, M/M, Magic, Murder, ONLY ONE PERSON WE LIKE DIES AND THEYRE FINE BY THE END, Ocean Voyage, Scratching, Self Harm, Soldier!Dean, Stabbing, Suicide, Swordfights, Swords, Temporary Character Death, Violence, accidentally heavily inspired by TOG series by SJM, as all my stories are in some way, basically a PSA on the importance of sleep tbh, character resurrection, criminal!cas, its been proposed that i fix these tags, listen guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 04:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 102,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12597668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manifestingwings/pseuds/manifestingwings
Summary: In a world where dragons reign over the mountains and terror looms in the streets of the city of Lavendel, Dean Winchester never expected his main problem to be a surly thief with eyes like the sea and a rare smile. As Captain of the Guard, he knows he has to arrest him for his crimes, but there may be bigger things at stake…





	1. Dark Palaces

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is cheesy, I know, I know, but it got you this far, didn't it? 
> 
> This story has been in the works for a long-ass time. It started, as all things do, as an idea, and it was originally very different than it is today, but I think that's for the best. I did this story for the 2017 DCBB Challenge, and it has been quite the journey. I owe a lot to this story, primarily my brilliant friend [Kit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhopp) , who has been infinitely helpful to me in everything from motivation to making sure this story made any sort of goddamn sense.  
> I am also thankful for my beta reader, [Dani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl) , who has truthfully taught me a lot about writing and various other things.  
> And, finally, my phenomenal artist [jdragon122](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jdragon122) , who created all the lovely pieces for this story. I'm very excited for the rest of the world to see them.  
> I could say a lot more about all the work that went into this and the things I've been through while writing it, but I won't. I will say that this story deals with potentially triggering topics, i.e. suicide and self-harm. The content is kind of important, so I wouldn't recommend reading if you're bothered by such things. You have been warned.
> 
> [Art masterpost](https://jdragon122.tumblr.com/post/167067720890/art-for-the-brave-and-the-bold-by)
> 
> Without further ado, happy reading!

_Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned._

_Ulysses: Episode Two: “Nestor” - James Joyce_

 

 

Fire was quick, quicker than the rapids of the river, swifter than the hawks in the field as they swooped for their prey, a raging inferno that only knew how to grow. It devoured everything in its path like it was nothing and it moved from victim to victim without a thought, without a care.

Dean Winchester, even at four years old, knew from some primal instinct that he should be running away from the fire, but he would not. Dean Winchester, even at four years old, was too stubborn, too brave, for his own good.

The heavy smoke stung at his eyes as he pushed his way through his home, muscle memory carrying him towards Sam’s room, Sam’s cries. He stumbled forward over a piece of the ceiling and was immediately scooped into his father’s arms and situated on his hip where Dean could bury his head into his chest.

“Dean,” John gasped, squatting and setting his son back on his feet. Dean could barely make out his father’s frantic eyes through the ash and soot powdering his face. He pressed a small bundle into the child’s arms. “Dean, I need you to take Sam and run, now!”

“Daddy—” Dean protested, but John shoved him away towards the stairs.

“Now, Dean!”

He was a good son, had always done as he was told. So Dean ran. He ran fast enough to clear the smoke from his eyes, his lungs; he ran all the way to where he knew the fire could not catch him. He was fast, faster than the flames.

But his parents were not.

His friends, neighbors, parents all burned, the smoke carrying them to the Dead Lands. Sam and Dean Winchester were the only survivors of a fire that would become legend, though no one would know their names, not for that. History would say there were no survivors from the Lawrence Burning, an inferno with no beginning anyone could see, an anomaly.

History would say it was an accident. A tragic mistake with no clear origin.

But Dean Winchester, tucked away between merchant’s goods headed for Revelan, knew differently. Even at four years old, he knew fires like that didn’t just happen.

Even at four years old, he knew he had to know _why._

 

 

Magic was all Castiel Elliot had, magic and his mother. They lived on the streets of Lavendel, the capital of Eureva, and they used their magic for only one thing: to help people.

But the King didn’t like that, somehow. You’d think he’d be _grateful_ , but no, magic was not allowed. Humanity was unworthy. That did not stop the Elliots from using it, however.

When they were finally caught by the Royal Guard, it was due to a little girl. She was dying of disease that smelled like a plague that predated Castiel, yet terrified his mother. Marie Elliot was trying to save the girl, untangle the sickness from her blood, when the Royal Guard came, their boots sending sprays of puddle water onto anyone who dared sit too close to their path. They wasted no time in beheading Castiel’s mother where she knelt, in front of Castiel’s very eyes, and before she could save the girl. The guards turned and eyed Castiel, undecided on what to do about him, unsure of his place in the situation.

Castiel knew he should have just stayed put, pretended he was useless, but even at five years old he was reckless, too bold for his own good.

Castiel reached out to the girl, keeping eye contact with the soldiers, and placed his hand on her chest to finish what his mother had started, healing her of her disease. The poor child stood and ran, but Castiel stayed put. One soldier raised his axe, but another held his arm back.

“He’s just a child. The King prefers that we spare his life.”

The guard member lowered his weapon begrudgingly, and still Castiel did not move. His moment of defiance was over and now he was frozen with terror, unable to even tremble despite the blood flowing around him, beneath him, soaking his pants and making him want to throw up and cry all at once. The soldier grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. He cut a deep slash into Castiel’s neck, splitting him open from jaw to his collarbone. It felt like he was being ripped apart, physically, yes, but also like his very soul was being rent in two.

The pain was so intense that Castiel couldn’t scream. Blue light spilled from his wound and he was vaguely aware of the small vial the soldier held, collecting the light. It was gone when Castiel was released, and he collapsed onto the ground. Gravel bit into his cheek and in addition to the stinging cut on his neck, his head was throbbing. All he could see was the fading picture of the soldiers’ heavy boots as they turned and left the scene. They would be back, eventually.

Castiel clamped a hand over his neck, but try as he might he could not heal himself. His fingers did not buzz with the blood of Angels, his wound did not close. Castiel was utterly and completely useless as he lay beside his mother’s headless corpse, praying that he would never have to get up.

 

 

Dean had never thought being Captain of the Guard would entail much sitting around on his ass, yet somehow that was where he’d ended up. He’d had to leave training early, just so he could sit by himself outside the throne room, waiting for the King to finish his meeting. He wanted to ‘have a word’ with Dean. About what, he hadn’t been clear.

Dean sighed and twirled the point of his sword into the ground, watching it spin. He’d been sitting against the wall for an hour with no company and the boredom was eating at him. He had important things to do _besides_ training, like filling out the piles of paperwork scattered across his desk. On his chair. The floor.

He had a lot on his plate, to put it lightly. He didn’t have time to be sitting on his ass waiting around for one of his least fav—

The door to the throne room swung open, thankfully not the one Dean was sitting against. Not the best idea, in hindsight, leaning on doors.

Crowley’s expression soured for a split second upon not seeing Dean before the Captain stood up quickly, and bowed.

“Your Highness. You were expecting me?” Dean greeted in a rush.

Crowley nodded, though the sour expression did not leave him. “Naturally, as I summoned you. You’ve come alone, told no one of your whereabouts?”

“Of course, sir,” Dean lied. He’d told Sam, but that didn’t really count.

“Good.” Crowley re-entered the throne room and beckoned Dean to follow him. Dean folded his hands behind his back and did as he was told.

The throne room of the Palace of Lavendel was a breathtaking sight. When Crowley had taken the throne, Angels knew how many years ago, one of the first things he had done was renovate the entire palace; even Dean had to admit the man had good taste. The floor was now made of shining white marble, with threads of gold and silver, crossing and dipping and weaving an elegant sight. From the doors straight across the room to the throne itself lay a deep purple rug, Holy Prayers embroidered into it with silver thread, one prayer to each of the seven Angels— including one for Lucifer, the fallen one. The left wall was primarily made of colored glass, arranged to depict the shining city of Lavendel, a golden star hanging above the mountains behind, while the right was a patchwork of tapestries and fairy lights, the story of the kingdom of Eureva.

The throne itself, however, was the true attraction. It was taller than Dean twice over and seemed to be elaborately carved from gold. The cushions were a purple that matched the rug, and it too was embroidered with silver thread, though Dean had never been near enough to read it. He suspected the gold of the chair itself also had words on it, but that was even harder to tell. It was simple, yet breathtaking.

Crowley made his way up the white marble steps to sit upon it, leaving Dean to stand before him at the stairs, hands clasped behind his back. Dean was the only soldier in the room, a rarity for the King. Dean suspected he’d just sent them all away. The thought made him feel nervous all of the sudden.

But he straightened his shoulders and folded his hands behind his back all the same.

Crowley cleared his throat and Dean raised his head to meet his King’s gaze. He looked regal yet terrifying, more fitted for the throne of the Dead Lands across the sea than of the seat of Michael, Leader of the Angels.

“Dean Winchester,” he boomed, setting the hairs on Dean’s neck on end. “Remind me, again, where you're from.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. Lying to the king was a crime punishable by death, but he’d been doing it since the day he joined the Guard. “Revelan, sir.”

“The city by the sea,” Crowley affirmed, rubbing at his chin. Dean kept his face blank and his body still. “Yes, I remember. Orphaned, correct?”

“My parents were passing through Lawrence on their way home from Lavendel when the fires started, sir. They died there.” This half-truth slid easier from his tongue, but still he stood with bated breath, waiting for the King’s reaction.

Crowley’s smirk sent a shiver down Dean’s spine, but he didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t worth getting angry over Crowley’s creepy behavior. “A tragedy. And you’ve not a drop of angelic blood?”

“Not an ounce.” None that Dean know of, that was. Not enough to matter.

“Good, good.” Crowley stood from his throne and began to pace before it. “Humans are unworthy of such things, am I correct? Only the royal line is chosen for such blessings as Angelic… gifts.”

Never mind that magic had died out in the royal line decades ago.

Dean forced his face into a guileless smile. “Naturally.”

With a satisfied nod, Crowley sat back down. “Dean, my most trusted soldier. I have an issue. It is top secret and your new top priority. You are forbidden to let a single detail about this pass your lips. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean just wouldn’t mention that Sam knew he was there and would make sure to keep everything else a secret.

There was a pause, the King’s satisfaction slowly morphing into restlessness as Crowley stood and began to pace again. “I’m sure you're aware of how I’ve begun to order guards in increasing numbers to protect my personal artifacts?”

“I am, sir. I’m hoping there’s a reason for that?” It was actually getting on his nerves a little. He’d been forced to send a few soldiers from the City Guard over to make sure everything in the castle was still secure. There were criminals and killers out there but _artifacts_ were what Crowley was worried about?

“Of course I have a reason, you moron.” Dean would be irked by this if he didn’t know that this was simply how Crowley was. He’d learned that very quickly. “Several of my possessions have been stolen. I had hoped that the added security would deter my thief, but he is brilliant and well learned in the ways of this castle. I do not want this information known, because it will only fuel his antics.”

Dean processed this information quickly, nodding in understanding. “Your Highness, why didn’t you report these thefts sooner?”

Crowley turned a sharp eye on him, and Dean resisted the urge to cower. Though he was the King, he was also a creepy son of a bitch and Dean couldn’t help but be a little scared of him despite knowing he could kick the shorter man’s ass if he wanted to. “Are you paying attention? I just told you why! Besides, these are no ordinary artifacts. My artifacts are where I’ve stored the magic I’ve taken from those squabbling fools who think they deserve power just because—”

“Because they were born with it?” Dean suggested innocently. It wasn’t that he disagreed with stripping those with Angelic ancestry of their powers— imagine if they were born to the wrong hands?— but he liked to push Crowley’s buttons, especially when he thought he could get away with it.

It seemed he _had_ gotten away with this comment, as Crowley just glared at him and continued, “You had best get a handle on that lip. In the wrong hands, the artifacts are a powerhouse. This country could very well be brought to its knees.” Crowley slowed his march and turned towards Dean. “I have a feeling our thief is looking for his own revoked power.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

Crowley spun on his heel to face the other direction, studying the stained-glass wall for a moment before he answered, “The thief is a man named Castiel Elliot. He and his mother were using magic even after it was outlawed. She was killed and Castiel’s power was taken from him, as he was so young when he was discovered. He didn’t know better, I suppose. I allowed him to work here in the palace as a servant for many years.”

“How do you know he’s the thief?”

“Castiel heard something he shouldn’t have— a conversation between myself and a... friend, about the power of the artifacts. The next day, he handed in his resignation and the first artifact went missing. He escaped my Guard, and has not been seen since, not even in the midst of his heists.” Crowley still faced the multi-color rendering of his city, but he turned his head to look at Dean. “I don’t want to make an affair of this, in case Castiel has figured out some way to utilize the power in those artifacts. That’s why you're going undercover.”

“Undercover?” Dean repeated, brows shooting up. Somehow, that had been the last thing he’d been expecting to hear.

“Yes, you dim-witted toad! Undercover. Learn to use your ears, why don’t you, and don’t interrupt me.” Dean pursed his lips and glared at the King, who responded with an exaggerated eye roll. “You're going to go undercover—” Crowley made sure to emphasize each syllable, “—and befriend him. Gain his trust so that he’ll simply _tell_ you where the artifacts are hidden. Once you’ve returned them to me, you will arrest him. I want to see the look on the slippery fox’s face when he sees that I’ve caught him, and he won’t get a second chance this time.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “That’s pretty dark, sir.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion. Are we clear on what you're to do?”

“Find Castiel Elliot. Gain his trust, get the artifacts, arrest him.” Dean ticked off each task on his fingers. “Got it.”

“And tell no one,” Crowley reminded.

“Tell no one,” Dean agreed with a sharp nod before bowing. Crowley waved a hand to dismiss him, and Dean spun on his heel, his sword smacking against his calf. It looked like he would have to miss out on training for a while.

 

 

The Roadhouse was not a place meant for someone as prestigious as the Captain of the Guard to frequent. The wood on the floors creaked under his boots and he’d gotten splinters off the bar, the tables, even the support beams scattered around the restaurant area. The hangings on the walls depicted laughing men, cups of ale in hand, surrounded by women smiling brightly. It got rowdy at nights and during the day housed the poor of Lavendel wanting a cheap meal. It wasn’t anything like the bars on the West side of town, but it was shabby for the North.

The Roadhouse was home to drunks and fools, too rough, too rugged for a Captain, and people who could recognize Dean as such stared when he walked in after his meeting with King Crowley.

But he paid no attention to them. If they wanted to stop him from visiting his baby brother, they would have to fight him. And he wasn’t Captain for nothing. He’d earned his pin. However, rumors had started to circulate that he went there for a secret prostitution ring, and the absurdity of it was starting to annoy Dean. He’d never have to pay anyone for sex.

Jess, Sam’s wife, was at the bar when Dean walked in. No one was at the bar itself, and she was whistling a popular tune as she wiped the old wood down.

“A pint, fair maiden,” Dean teased when he reached the bar top, folding his arms and leaning on it but neglecting to sit.

Jess smiled and whipped her cleaning rag dangerously close to Dean’s face. “No can do, Dean. Not while you’ve got that pin on.”

Dean winked. “Good girl. Make sure you don’t give anyone else special treatment.” The last thing he needed was drunk soldiers, running around terrorizing people for fun while on duty. It didn’t make anyone look good, especially him. For the most part, the bars across town were clear on that, but every once in a while someone slipped. People got hurt.

“You know I won’t,” Jess assured with a smile. “I assume you're here to either drive away business or talk to Sam?”

“Me? Drive away business? Nah, everyone loves me! If anything, I should be your mascot.”

“Not after you arrested someone,” Jess sing-songed.

“That was _one time._ And he was a thief! Are you telling me not to arrest thieves?”

Jess gave him a scolding look and pointed up to the second floor of the building where she and Sam lived. “He’s up there. Try not to make so much noise with those obnoxious boots of yours.”

Dean laughed but really did try to be quiet, as Jessica Winchester was not one to be trifled with. All in all, Dean wasn’t really sure why he was there. He couldn’t tell Sam about his mission or anything. Crowley had been explicitly clear, so truthfully there was no point in talking to him, but for some reason he needed to see his brother. Something about this mission was eating at him, twisting his gut uncomfortably, and Sam’s pinpoint moral compass did wonders to balance Dean’s bouts of guilt, somehow. Almost as if it didn’t really matter what Dean was fucking up because Sam existed to counteract him.

“Sammy?” he called as he reached the top of the stairs.

“Dean?”

Dean pushed open the door to Sam and Jess’ bedroom. Sam was leafing through a stack of papers, a quill and an open bottle of ink resting next to him. “Whatcha up to?”

Sam barely glanced up at his brother. “Working on an employee application. We’re getting more business and need more hands. Since Ellen died and you stole Jo away to the Guard, we’ve been a little understaffed.”

“Hey, Jo wanted to come to the Guard. There was no stealing on my part.”

“You could have not hired her.”

“You're not the only one hurting for employees, bitch.”

Sam looked up from his papers to glare at him. “Jerk. What do you want? How’d your top-secret meeting with Crowley go?”

“Hmm? Meeting? Little brother, I’m afraid I don’t know what you're talking about. I just came from a simple walk out to the lake,” Dean said with a wink. Sam furrowed his brow and gaped like a fish for a moment before a pointed look from Dean had him nodding in understanding.

“What do you want, then? I have a business to run, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Ooh, all professional with your _bar_. I see. You don’t love me anymore.”

Sam made such an impressive bitchface that Dean was surprised he didn’t explode right then and there. “Get out.”

“Add insult to injury, why don’t you? Fine. I have better things to do anyway.”

“Oh yeah, you go put the fear of Michael in some rowdy teenagers. So glad we have you protecting our streets.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean sighed and kicked at the carpet. “Actually though, Sam... I didn’t have a meeting with anyone today, you hear me?”

Sam gave him a thumbs up. “Got it. Bye.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dean promised. He didn’t give Sam a chance to respond before he spun on his heel and trooped back down the stairs, still trying his best to be quiet.

“Leaving so soon?” Jess called.

Dean grinned at her. “Official business to take care of, Jessica. Try not to miss me too much.”

Jess simply rolled her eyes and Dean turned around again, ignoring the second round of stares as he made his way out the door.

He truly was quite the rockstar in this town. Normally he would’ve stayed to chat with Jess or some of the families he recognized in there, but he had work to do.

If he ever wanted to gain Castiel’s trust, he needed to have a plan.

 

 

One of the first things Dean learned in his career of tracking people down was that knowing someone’s past was knowing half the person. Even the barest of facts— where someone was born, their family situation, previous jobs, criminal records— could be used to piece together an image of a person.

Fortunately, Dean had access to all this information and more. It wouldn’t make this mission easy by any stretch, but it beat knocking on every door in Lavendel until he found a man his age with dark hair, blue eyes, and a long scar on his neck, as his file said.

Castiel Elliott, a Celestial. A man descended from the Angels themselves, from the Nephilim children of Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Jophiel, or Zadkiel. Perhaps even Lucifer, but not Michael, whose only son was the first King of Eureva. Though it took ten generations for magic to die on its own, Castiel’s family was one of a large handful that had reproduced with other Celestials to keep it in their blood.

Born in Lavendel, one year before the King figured out a way to take magic from the Celestials and outlawed it, one year after the blood plague had come to Eureva and wiped out a fifth of the population. Castiel’s parents escaped the disease, only for Jedidiah Elliott to be slaughtered by soldiers for using magic against them. He was a fire wielder. Castiel and his mother Marie were healers, until the day Marie, too, was executed for avoiding the law, and Castiel had been taken to work in the castle. After his magic had been removed, of course.

The Celestials had been given two options. Give up their magic, or die. Castiel had been spared, due to his young age.

Castiel worked in the castle for the past twenty years, up until six months ago, when he stole his first artifact and made his grand escape. According to Crowley’s thick stack of notes he’d left on Dean’s desk, Castiel possessed four out of six artifacts. The King wanted Dean to act as fast as possible to prevent any of the other artifacts being robbed. Dean wasn’t so sure. If he were a thief, a royal thief at that, he would be sitting back and relaxing right about then, waiting for everyone to let their guard down. Castiel had to know Crowley was onto him, that someone would come for him soon. He’d stolen from the most guarded room in Lavendel four times; he wasn’t a stupid man.

The trickiest part about the operation would undoubtedly be gaining Castiel’s trust. In Dean’s experience, thieves weren’t known for being quick to make friends. Especially with very popular Captains, who he would have to be an idiot to not recognize. Dean had been Captain for nearly a year now, part of the City Guard even longer, so he would be very shocked indeed if Castiel didn’t recognize him, in passing at the very least. They’d apparently lived in the same place for seven years, so the odds were high.

Of course, that only made Dean’s job harder. He would obviously have to play at not recognizing Castiel at all. With any luck, Castiel would only see Dean as an advantage; befriending the Captain of the Guard did have its advantages, especially if you were a thief, but in the end Dean would have the true advantage in knowing that Castiel was a criminal.

It began in the summer, a month after the solstice and two weeks since Dean had been assigned what Crowley had repeatedly deemed ‘the most important mission of your miserable existence’. Dean had been searching the slums, not bothering to hide his face. This was, officially, his job, after all; he was there a lot. Previous Captains had written off the streets on the West side as a hopeless case, but Dean made a point to come and see what was what at least twice a week. He liked it there, liked the people despite their reputations.

More importantly, it was exactly where Castiel Elliott would be hiding, if he were still in Lavendel at all. His mother had been killed there. Dean started there, at the crossroads where Marie Elliott had lost her life. He imagined the blood on the cobblestones was still visible.

However true that Marie had been breaking the law, Dean couldn’t imagine watching his mother be beheaded in front of him at five years old. He could barely handle having watched his parents burn from afar, unable to see their faces, hear their screams.

Remembering that she had been a healer, something in Dean’s gut twisted looking down at that street. Worthy or not, she had probably helped people. How could it be right to kill her, take and hoard that magic?

It didn’t matter, Dean decided, pushing that thought away as he headed into the closest building. Too much to think about. This was a spy mission, nothing more. If Dean started thinking too hard about the world, his own would fall apart.

The building was an apartment complex, which Dean took as a good sign. The young woman standing behind a desk in the lobby looked bored as she flipped through the yellowed pages of a thick, leather-bound book. To the left was an open doorway, revealing an empty bar— to the right, a staircase.

Dean approached the desk and set his fists atop it, catching the girl’s attention. She straightened immediately when she saw who it was, hiding her book behind her back and staring at him with wide, terrified brown eyes.

Dean grinned. “Relax, I’m not here to arrest you,” he assured her. She relaxed slightly. “What are you reading?”

The girl gestured towards empty air with the book. “Nothing. Can I help you, Captain?” she asked, with a nervous glance at his pin.

“Two things.” Dean pointed at the bar. “Do you work in there?” The girl nodded. “Okay. You know there’s no serving soldiers while they’re in uniform, right?”

“I know it’s against the law. Soldiers don’t come in here much, though, sir, so it’s not really an issue,” the girl responded promptly, dropping her arms completely and resting her book in front of her. _Tales from the Dead Lands._ Dark, but okay.

“What’s your name?”

The girl gulped. “It’s Krissy. Krissy Chambers. Do you need anything else?”

“I don’t suppose you have a list of everyone who lives here?”

Krissy hesitated, glancing from his pin to his face and back down. She swallowed once more and her eyes flicked back to his face, a sudden hard set to them. No matter how popular Dean was, slums were slums. The people were loyal and the #1 rule was never trust a cop. “Why?”

“Census stuff. Taxes and whatever,” Dean replied, waving a flippant hand.

Krissy raised her chin ever so slightly, trying to make herself taller than she was. “No one here is a criminal, sir.”

“Oh, I’m sure. King just likes to know where people are. Kinda creepy, but he is the King, so.” Dean shrugged. What could you do?

“And the King sends his Captain of the Guard, who I’m sure has much more important things to do, to get lists of names?”

Dean sighed, dropping his gaze to the ground. It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected this, though. “Look, Krissy, I don’t want to freak you out or anything. But... we may need to relocate some people, okay? I can’t say much, but you gotta help me out a little,” Dean pleaded, doing his best to pull out the puppy eyes that Sam had mastered. He was nothing if not a good liar, an easy charmer.

Krissy sighed, but ultimately each of them knew that there was no point in her defiance. She crouched behind the wooden desk and came up a few moments later with a single sheet of paper marked with two columns of ink. She handed it over to Dean with a glare. He responded with a soft, almost apologetic smile.

“Thank you, Krissy. This isn’t a sure thing, alright? No guarantees that anything’ll change around here,” he said, a false promise. Not that he knew that yet.

Krissy nodded. “Right.” She squinted her eyes and studied him, a suspicious glint in her eye. “I have a feeling you're a total liar, but I won’t say anything. Promise.”

Dean’s heart missed a beat. _Great_. Now people were onto him, the last thing Crowley wanted. Just awesome. “Believe what you want, then,” he managed to say with some air of casualty before backing away from the desk and sweeping outside. Dean folded the page into thirds and tucked it under his shirt.

Actually, maybe he should check that one first before he went around checking any other buildings, making more people suspicious.

He ducked into the narrow alley between that building and the next, looking around to make sure the street was empty. He pulled out the list, straining his eyes to read every name.

Most of them were unfamiliar to Dean, but every now and then there was someone who’d been arrested or served a short sentence, like Anna Milton and Gordon Walker; an underage drinker and a kidnapper, respectively. But he continued skimming until— _there_. The last name on the list.

Dean smirked to himself as he folded the paper again and stuffed it into his shirt. Now it was only a matter of waiting, and watching.

 

 

Castiel was not easy to predict. Dean had been watching (it’s not stalking if it’s your job) him for a week and the guy barely left the building. Dean spent all damn day waiting in the alley, watching the door and hiding in shadow— he’d shed his official pin as soon as he’d gotten what he’d needed from Krissy. Crowley had made it clear that he was not to perform his usual duties until he was in solid standing with Castiel. So Dean watched. And waited.

On the seventh day, the Captain said screw it. He didn’t care about anticipating exactly when Castiel would go to buy a loaf of bread so he could craft the perfect interaction. It was clear that was never going to happen.

So, after a week of waiting, when Castiel stepped out onto the street, ratty tan cloak billowing in the breeze, Dean followed.

He walked on the other side of the street, making sure he was a normal distance behind him as well. He flicked his hood down, blinking at the sudden change in light. Castiel hadn’t turned once.

He followed him all the way into the marketplace, the center of Lavendel, a bustling mass of activity a quarter of a mile in each direction. The market was sparse today, easy to navigate and easy to keep track of someone. People passing by either waved at him, averted their eyes from him, or said hello, but still Castiel did not turn, keeping the same brisk pace he’d maintained for as long as Dean had been following him.

He stopped at a fruit vendor. Dean walked past him, stopping three booths down, and was shocked to find a familiar face. Well, shocked and grateful.

“Benny,” he blurted, one eye on his friend and the other on Castiel. He was still buying fruit. “What are you doing here?”

Benny chuckled. “A man can’t have two jobs?”

“If one of them is dedicated member of the Guard, then, no.” Dean didn’t mean to be a tightass, but really. In the business of saving lives and keeping the peace, it was all or nothing.

“Don’t worry, brother. I’m just standing in for Andrea for a moment here. Nature called and her normal helper is sick. What can I get for you?” Benny asked, leaning over the table and folding his arms. Andrea sold an assortment of handmade jewelry, each piece unique and stunning.

Dean fingered a ring for a moment, admiring the way it glinted in the sun. “Ah, no. I’m just—”

Benny straightened. “Your ‘urgent, classified task’?”

“...Maybe.” Castiel took his fruit in a bag and began walking again, right towards Dean. “Benny, you were never here, got it?” Now Benny would have an indication of what Dean was up to. Crowley was going to flay him alive.

“Yes, sir. Never saw you.”

Dean stepped away from his friend’s booth casually. He didn’t look at Castiel as he walked towards him, though he could feel the other man’s suspicious blue eyes searching his face. He was right to be wary, as the moment they passed each other, Dean tripped into him, twisting his wrist with a gentle touch so that when they fell—

Castiel hissed in pain. Dean had fallen directly on top of him, hands braced on either side of his head. Castiel was biting his lip so hard that it bled from the pain of a broken wrist. It was definitely not the right thing to be thinking, but his eyes were unnervingly blue. Like the sky on a cloudless day, or the very edge of the ocean. He was also unfairly good-looking, even with his face contorted in pain.

Dean snapped to his feet, extending a hand for Castiel. Castiel glared but accepted it with his uninjured hand, wincing still. If looks could kill, Dean would have been vaporized.

“Um,” Dean said, blushing. _Smooth._ He extended a hand towards Castiel’s wrist, which he was cradling against his chest. Castiel glared harder. “Can I see?”

Castiel glowered, pulling into himself further. Dean noticed the scar on his neck, really more of a very faint line, skin that would never be quite the right color.

Dean sighed, trying to look innocent. “Come on. I know a thing or two about first aid.”

“It’s broken,” Castiel said at last, the sound of his voice shocking Dean. It was both smooth and rough, deep and rich, filled with contempt. For Dean.

Probably because he’d just broken the guy’s wrist, but Dean thought that was a little unfair. He didn’t know he’d done it on purpose.

“Well, yeah. I can set it for you, though. I’ve set a few bones in my life. One time when my—” Dean noted the intensified glare and he shut up. “Right. But, um. Anyway. You probably don’t wanna see a medic because their rates are ridiculous and it is kinda my fault that it’s broken, so—”

“‘Kinda’?”

Dean gulped. He was frazzled, and frazzled wasn’t good for charming people. Or maybe it was endearing. Or perhaps Castiel was about to break his wrist in return. “I didn’t do it on purpose!”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. Dean’s blush intensified. Angels above, why did he have to be hot? Of all the things Dean had anticipated, this wasn’t one of them. Dean bit down on his tongue to stop himself licking his lips.

“I don’t assume you have first aid supplies on you?” Castiel said in a bored tone that Dean thought may have been sarcasm.

“I… no.” Dean _really_ should have thought this through more.

They’d been standing in the same spot now for a few minutes, and people were starting to stare. Dean tended to attract a lot of looks, especially when having heated discussions with dudes he’d just knocked down. People were even stopping to watch.

Dean noticed this and immediately tensed. Castiel noticed, too. He jerked his head to an alleyway on their left, and Dean nodded, stooping down to grab the dropped bag of fruit before following Castiel into the alley.

It was a narrow space. They were each pressed against opposite sides of it, yet there couldn’t have been more than six inches between them. Dean tried not to think about that as Castiel’s breathing became heavier. Shit, he’d really hurt him.

Dean really wasn’t supposed to care, but he was still human, still hard-wired for protecting people. A sick feeling in his gut settled despite what he kept telling himself; that this man was a dangerous thief who could be planning on overthrowing the King and hurting other people.

 _He hasn’t hurt anyone yet,_ Dean’s traitor brain reminded him.

Whatever. It didn’t matter if Castiel deserved it or not, Dean was going to help him.

“I’ll accept your help,” Castiel spoke in a low voice that made the space between them feel more like six millimeters. “But only because I don’t want to go to the medics. I’m also not going to the castle.”

Dean nodded. “Right.” He racked his brain quickly— all of Dean’s supplies were at the castle. “Yeah, okay. You know the bar on the North side of town?”

“Since you're being so specific, no, I don’t.” The bluntness of Castiel’s tone almost made Dean laugh, but he squashed it down.

“The Roadhouse?”

“I am familiar with the establishment. Why didn’t you just _say_ that?”

Dean glared at him. Castiel glared back.

“Whatever,” he said, looking back out towards the marketplace. No one was giving them a second glance. “My brother owns it, he’ll have stuff there.”

Dean stepped back out into the market, continuing West towards the main road. Castiel followed a moment later. “I was unaware you had a brother.”

Dean raised his eyebrow. “Of course not, you don’t even know my name.”

“You and I both know that’s not true, Captain.”

Dean sighed. Sometimes he wished his name was his own to give away. Everywhere he went, perfect strangers knew exactly who he was, even without his uniform. Sometimes it was hard to keep up with that level of social interaction.

“Actually, my name is Dean, but that was a good guess,” Dean retorted with a wink. Castiel rolled his eyes, and they walked in silence for a few seconds. “Kinda unfair, though, that you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

Castiel hesitated for a beat. Dean could tell that he was debating whether or not to use a fake name. “Castiel,” he decided finally. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean nodded like he was hearing it for the first time. “Well, Castiel, it’s nice to meet you. I get it if you can’t say the same about me.”

Castiel smirked, just a little, and Dean grinned.

“I’m curious,” he said as they reached the main road. “If I were to press charges over you breaking my wrist, would you have to arrest yourself?”

Dean snorted. “It was an accident. People don’t get arrested over accidents, they get sued.”

“I would tell you to expect to hear from my lawyer if I had a lawyer.” Dean laughed again. Damn. He’d been banking on Castiel being a creepy asshole, someone he’d have to pretend to be friends with, but he was finding himself enjoying this guy’s company. Great.

“I don’t even know if I have a lawyer or not,” Dean admitted.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You do. The King has several working in the palace for whoever he wants, you included.”

“...Oh. Why do you know that and I don’t?”

“Well, unlike you, I pay attention to my surroundings.”

“Really, Cas? I thought we’d moved past that.” Dean didn’t mean to call him Cas— it just slipped out. Admittedly, it was much easier to say, but probably another supreme bad idea.

“How can we move past it if my arm is still broken?”

Dean frowned and said nothing, looking at the ground as they walked. He groaned internally at himself, but the question slipped out regardless. “Does it hurt much?”

“Have you ever broken a bone?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Then you tell me.”

Dean sighed aloud. “I’m sorry for running into you.” Dean meant it, too. Shit.

“It’s fine.” There was an awkward pause as Cas adjusted his wrist and Dean swung the fruit in his hand back and forth. There was no one on the streets except them. Cas cleared his throat. “Your brother... he owns the Roadhouse?”

“Mhm. For about a year now.”

“I thought the Roadhouse was run by a woman named Ellen?”

Dean frowned. Thinking of Ellen still hurt; she hadn’t deserved to die the way she did. “Yeah. Ellen… she was good to me and Sam. When we moved here, to the city, she gave us a place to stay until we found our feet. Kept us out of the slums.”

“I live in the slums,” Cas told him, a blunt edge to his words, though not an offended one.

“Ah— sorry.”

“I am not defending it. As I’m sure you're aware, it’s not somewhere you want to be, but unfortunately it’s all I can afford.”

Dean frowned. Odd that a thief would have to live in poverty, but he shook off the suspicion creeping into his brain. If Crowley was right, it wasn’t about the money for him, not yet.

“Yeah. Me and Sam got here with not even a dime, but Ellen was an old friend of— of the guy who raised us—”

“Your father?”

“No,” Dean replied, with no intention of elaborating. “When we got to town she took us in. She made us work and let us sleep in her guest room. By the time Sammy had enough money for an apartment, I was part of the Royal Guard living in the castle.”

“Were you ever part of the City Guard?” Cas asked. His tone had become remarkably less hostile as their conversation went on.

“Yeah. I trained with the Royal Guard for maybe two years, and then the next four I was on the streets until I became Captain. But anyway, Sam was working at the Roadhouse all that time, and by the time Ellen died—” he stumbled over the word, earning him a strange, pitying look from Cas, “—her daughter had joined the Guard. So, she left it to Sammy.”

“That’s rather touching,” Cas said as they crossed the main street onto the one the Roadhouse rested on. “How did she die?”

Dean closed his eyes. He didn’t want to be giving away personal information to him, but his mission was to befriend, and this was how friendship worked. “She was killed. Murdered. Some drunk lowlife had too much to drink and she cut him off. So...” Dean shrugged, trying to play at nonchalant, like he was over it. But the truth was that Ellen was the closest thing to a mother he was ever going to get, and it still hurt and it wasn’t fair. “The old Captain was retiring and he was so impressed with how I handled everything that he promoted me when he left. So that’s how that happened.”

Cas didn’t bother with any of the ‘I’m so sorry’ or ‘that must’ve been so hard for you’ bullcrap, and fuck if it didn’t make Dean like him more. He simply nodded and moved the conversation along. “If I’m not mistaken, you are the youngest person in history to hold your title.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin at that. “Yup. Sammy tells me I’m a control freak and he might be right. I like telling people what to do. Which sounds bad, but I mean, I like being able to tell people when they’re doing something wrong and they have to listen to me, you know? Makes sure things are done right.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “I suppose we should all pray for your morals, then. Though I am inclined to presume they are sound.”

Dean blushed and immediately felt so guilty that he could puke. How could he have sound morals when here he was, lying and manipulating someone?

Because he had to. Because in the wrong hands—

_Maybe Cas’ hands were the right hands._

Dean shoved those thoughts into a box and then shoved the box down a good eight feet. Angels, he sees one pretty face and suddenly he’s questioning his loyalties.

Dean managed a breathy chuckle. “Thanks, I guess.”

They stopped together in front of the dark, empty bar. Cas hesitated, glancing over at him. “Are you sure your brother is home?”

Dean shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” Dean lunged at the door, flinging it open as hard as he dared. “YO! SAMMY!”

Dean got hit in the head with a sponge for that. Apparently Jess had been standing in the middle of the room cleaning and didn’t appreciate people barging in screaming and scaring the living daylights out of her.

Cas smirked as Dean rubbed at his forehead, and Dean noticed his wrist still pinned delicately to his chest. Dean made a face at him.

“Angels above, Dean, you can’t just _do_ that,” Jess reprimanded, hand over her heart.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Right, next time I’ll be sure to write. Where’s Sam?”

“Why is it that you never come here to talk to me? It’s always ‘Where’s Sam?’”

“Fine,” he gave her his best smile, “Jess, where’s the medicine cabinet?”

Jess scoffed, picking up her dropped broom. “Like I know. You think he lets me organize things? He’s almost as much of a control freak as you.”

“Hey, I am not—” Jess gave him a withering look. Dean slumped his shoulders, defeated. “Yeah, whatever. Sam!”

Dean beckoned for Cas to follow him upstairs while Jess continued sweeping. He bounded up the creaky wooden steps in search of his brother, Cas on his heels.

“Who was that?” Cas asked. He had been silent the entire experience, and Jess had been too distracted breaking the law (assaulting a member of the Guard) and yelling at him to notice the man in the background.

“My sister-in-law,” Dean explained as he opened the door to the bedroom. No Sam.

“She seemed rather harsh.”

Dean frowned. “That’s how family is, man. Tough love. Or at least, my family.”

“But that’s very mean. My mother was never that mean to me.”

Dean shrugged. Where the fuck was Sam? He went back into the bedroom after checking the two other rooms upstairs. Whatever, he’d just go through all his stuff. “I don’t know, man. I’d rather have people who say it like it is than people who are just nice all the time. Nice is too… formal. And you can’t have a good time with people who are formal.” Dean knelt next to Sam’s bed and pulled out a drawer built into the bottom. _Ugh_. Papers. He started sifting through them.

“I suppose you're right. I wouldn’t exactly know, my mother and father died when I was very young.”

Dean paused in his search, but he didn’t look up at Cas for a full two seconds. Even then, he could only meet his eyes for a moment at a time.

It wasn’t as fresh or painful a wound as Ellen’s death, but still, Dean didn’t like to talk about his parents. He remembered all too vividly what had occurred the last time he ever spoke to them. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

Cas just nodded in understanding. Neither asked the other for details.

Dean sighed and stood. “Fucking Sam. Doesn’t make any sense.” He slid past Cas out of the room, to the closet across the hall. Jackpot. Dean grabbed the entire crate labeled _medical_ and turned, shooing Cas back into the bedroom. He made him sit on the bed while Dean stole the chair from the desk and sat across from him.

He held out his hand. Cas set his wrist gently in his palm, fingers twitching slightly.

Dean smirked. “You gotta relax. This is gonna hurt, okay?” he warned, waited a moment and asked, “Are you ready?”

Cas breathed deeply through his nose once before he nodded. “Yes.”

Dean probed the swollen skin, fingers ghosting over it, applying the barest amount of pressure to certain spots. Cas covered a cry with his free hand when Dean brushed the side of his wrist, biting down on his knuckle.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, just—” Dean grabbed Cas’ hand with the one that wasn’t holding his broken wrist and pulled it gently out of his mouth. Cas immediately wrapped his hand around Dean’s in a vice-like grip. “It’s fine. Really.” Cas glared at him with such complete malice that Dean physically leaned back. “Okay. It’s more fine than it could be. I just need to set it, okay?”

Cas breathed deeply once again and nodded, sliding his hand away from Dean’s. Dean nodded and reached down into the wooden crate, holding Cas’ arm gingerly above his head as he pulled out two flat sticks and a roll of bandages. Dean worked quickly, having Cas hold one splint in place while he secured the other and wrapped the bandages.

He secured the end and sat back in his chair with a sigh. Why that was so stressful, Dean couldn’t say. He cleared his throat. “Feel alright?”

Cas nodded, tracing his fingers delicately over the bandages. “Thank you, Dean.” He made to stand, but Dean shook his head, pushing down on his shoulder.

“Not done. You need a sling so you don’t use that thing too much.”

Cas frowned. “But I need it.”

“For what?” Dean asked, rolling out more bandage and tearing it off with his teeth. He didn’t miss how Cas’ eyes followed the action.

Cas flicked up his eyes to meet Dean’s. “General activities of life. Baking. Cleaning. Writing.”

 _Perfect,_ Dean thought. “I’ll help you with that stuff. This is my fault, after all.”

Cas shook his head. “You’ve done enough. Besides, I imagine you're very busy.”

Dean shrugged, standing and unearthing a roll of canvas from behind the dresser. He flicked his knife out of his pocket and cut about a foot and a half sized square. He grabbed the box of sewing supplies and sat next to Cas on the bed before he set to work. “I mean, yeah, but I’m a big fan of delegating. Plus, things are pretty quiet around here. No crime in months.”

And the relief flooding Cas’ eyes at that was all the confirmation Dean needed that he was, in fact, behind the thefts. Because the thefts _were_ the only crime in the past few months. Cas thought he’d gotten away with it.

Not for much longer, though. Soon, there would be a reckoning.

“I suppose you could help, then, if that’s what you really want,” Cas ceded carefully. Dean just grinned at him.

The bedroom door eased open, emitting Sam, who looked tired. And sweaty.

“Dude, were you jogging?” Dean asked, finishing off the side of the sling that would hold Cas’ elbow in place.

Sam didn’t even blink at him or the stranger sitting on his bed. “Dean, you jog every morning. You make a hundred people jog with you.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause I have to. You can sit in here all day and get fat if you want!”

“Well, I don’t want,” Sam said as he took Dean’s previously occupied chair. He nodded to Cas. “Who’s this?”

“This is Cas. I broke his wrist and now I’m trying to make it up to him,” Dean explained. He just had to sew in one more side of the strap.

Sam sighed. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Hey, you're in my house, jerk.”

Dean made a face at him. Cas just frowned, tilting his head to the side slightly.

Dean finished off the sling, facing Cas and tugging it over his head. He stuck his arm through the hole and let him do the rest to make himself comfortable.

“Alright Sammy, nice talk, but I’ve gotta get Cas home.” Sam raised his eyebrows in that way that made Dean feel _judged,_ but he left.

Cas watched him leave and then turned to Dean. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home.”

“Tough. If I’m going to be your slave for the next two months, I should probably know where you live,” Dean reasoned.

Cas gaped at him. “Two months?”

Dean nodded. “Yup.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure this is going to be interesting, to say the least.”

 

 

It was stupid and Castiel knew that. He shouldn’t have even accepted Dean’s help in the first place— in fact, he should have lied about his broken wrist from the beginning. He couldn’t exactly be friends with the Captain of the Guard and simultaneously be stealing from his boss. Sooner rather than later, he would be caught.

But he didn’t see any other options. He’d only retrieved four of six artifacts, and he had no other ideas on how to get back in the castle. All three of his passageways into the ballroom-turned-sanctuary were now blocked or guarded too heavily for him to penetrate.

It was a foolish hope, but perhaps if it came to a point where Dean was his friend, maybe he would listen to what Castiel had to say— why he was committing his grand thefts. He seemed like a good person, one who might believe Castiel if given the chance.

He just had to gain his trust.

Castiel shoved open the door to his apartment with one hand. It was sparse, to say the least. In place of a sofa was a simple bench in the middle of the room, and an oven was shoved in the corner, as if it was sparsely or never used. The counter was the only thing that separated the single room, behind which were three wire shelves, and piles of books shoved against the wall. Castiel blushed. He hadn’t thought about what a mess it was before allowing Dean over.

But Dean didn’t even bat an eye as he went to the heavy black drapes and flung them open. “Why do you keep it so dark in here?”

Castiel shrugged as he sat on the bench, folding his legs under him. “I left. Light seemed unnecessary, as I wouldn’t even be here. Besides, it’s very hot.”

Dean set Castiel’s fruit purchase on the counter, turning slowly as he did a more in-depth survey of Castiel’s home. He tried not to feel self-conscious.

Dean cleared his throat as he rotated back to face Castiel. “So, um. Do you need anything?”

“I would very much like to take a nap.”

Dean frowned, crossing the room to lean against the wall across from Castiel. “Don’t you have a job?”

“If you're trying to recruit me, the answer is no.” Castiel couldn’t help but glance down at Dean’s feet. He wasn’t wearing his uniform shoes, the large clunky boots that haunted Castiel’s nightmares. His simple leather shoes were much more silent.

Dean chuckled. “Wouldn’t want you anyway. You break too easy.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. Anyone would have broken their wrist if they’d fallen like he had, with two-hundred pounds of muscled Captain on top of them.

“Okay, so I should just… leave you to your nap?”

Castiel felt bad, suddenly, about using him in order to get into the castle. True that he had genuine hope of earning Dean’s willing help, but his first priority would never be friendship.

He dismissed the thought. He was only doing what he had to do.

It occured to him that he may not be the only one of them with an agenda crossed his mind briefly. What if Dean was aware of his crimes and here to recover the artifacts, undercover?

That would be idiotic, Castiel realized. If Crowley was going to send someone in undercover, surely he would have chosen someone less well-known. No, Dean was not here to double-cross him. Still, one could never be too careful. Just because he didn’t know what Castiel had done didn’t mean he was disloyal to Crowley.

“Yes, please. If I need you…”

Dean waved a flippant hand. “I’ll drop in. If it’s an emergency, though, just find a guard. I’m pretty conspicuous, someone’ll find me.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “You’ll drop in? Don’t _you_ have a job?”

Dean laughed, but he quickly morphed it into a cough. “Uh. Yeah. But you know, I can patrol at night. I prefer that, actually.”

“But when will you sleep?”

“Okay, I didn’t say I would be here _all day._ Besides, I only need, like, four hours.”

“That seems unhealthy.”

“Nah. Do it all the time. So I’ll be here. In the morning and stuff.”

Castiel nodded. “I will see you tomorrow morning, then.”

“I guess so.” Dean hesitated for a moment, mouth open, before shaking his head and going back to the curtains, blocking out the light with a sharp yank.

Bathed in darkness, Castiel heard Dean utter a soft goodbye and then leave. He sighed and laid back against the bench, hoping sleep would cast away the guilt in his stomach.

 

 

Dean yawned as he turned over another sheet of paper onto his steadily growing pile of finished work. He flicked his gaze up and across the room to where Cas was laying on his stomach, a book shoved right under his nose. Dean marvelled at how he could read that closely.

Crowley wasn’t happy with him. However true that Dean had effectively halted any theft for at least two months, Crowley now seemed to be of the opinion that things were taking too long. As if it should be easy to gain such complete trust from someone that they tell you about committing treason. Especially when Dean’s the biggest anti-treason and anti-crime advocate in literally the entire country. And Cas knows that.

Along with the fact that since he was now officially ‘on the inside,’ he had to go back to his everyday work. Filing paperwork, running training, patrolling, going to meetings...

Maybe it was wrong and dangerous and stupid, but most days Dean looked forward to the mornings he spent at Cas’ apartment. It had only been a week, but the small room was comfortable and inviting, peaceful in a way he’d never experienced before. Maybe it was the silence, a soothing blanket draped over the room, not heavy or awkward. Or maybe it was the lack of pressure, the way Dean was allowed to sit against a wall and get stuff done without anyone bursting in with more to ask for or distracting him.

Maybe it was Cas.

Dean often found himself staring at him, the way his eyes darted around the page of a book or his fingers tapping against the floor in a senseless rhythm. This entire situation had all the ingredients for one big, giant mess for Dean in the future. Because, as much as he would like to deny it, this was going to end tragic. In the end, he’d be betraying Cas and there was no two ways about it. Even if it’d been his intention from the start, it would still be betrayal.

He hadn’t considered how awful that information would feel, how heavily it would sit in his gut and the back of his throat like a stone.

But really, did he have any other choice? Awful as the man was, Crowley was King and Dean was loyal to him. Besides, stealing was stealing. Beyond that, if Dean went against the King, he could just say goodbye to his life. Literally. Knowing Crowley, he’d get Sam and Jess, too, and Cas for sure. Especially if he had the power of super-special artifacts.

Dean shouldn’t even be thinking those thoughts. He didn’t even _want_ to go against Crowley. Cas was a criminal, and Dean arrested criminals. That was that.

Cas looked up from his book and smirked slightly. “Enjoying your paperwork?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. Really fun trying to remember exact details of arrests I made _months_ ago, writing testimonies, prisoner transfer forms, signing execution witness forms. It’s great. Really makes me feel good about the world.”

Cas’ smirk fell. “You have to witness executions?”

Dean sighed and set down the form he was holding, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, sometimes. If it’s someone I arrested or someone really awful.”

Which just made Dean think that one day he would inevitably have to witness Cas’ execution, and the thought made him want to puke.

“How often?”

Dean shrugged. “I’ve only been Captain, what, a year? Not even. I’ve seen about nine. So. One a month, roughly.”

“Do you find it… hard? To witness?”

“Ever seen someone die, Cas?” Dean asked, already knowing the answer.

Cas’ face completely shut down, closing off. He glanced at Dean’s feet. “Yes.”

“Well, then, you tell me.”

“Considering the one person I saw perish was my mother and you watch criminals and murderers be executed, I doubt the two are comparable,” Cas said, almost angry as he returned his attention to his book.

He shouldn’t have asked him that. Dean swallowed before continuing in a soft tone, “Yeah, you’d think. But it’s pretty sickening no matter who it is. Just less… painful, when it’s a stranger, someone who deserves to die.”

Cas looked back up at him. “You think anyone deserves to die?”

Dean fell silent. Maybe, maybe not. It wasn’t his call. “I don’t know, do you?”

Cas didn’t seem to have an answer for that, either. “I think there are some crimes with unfitting punishments. Executions performed on people who simply existed and did nothing but help.”

Dean nodded slowly. “You're talking about the Celestials.”

Cas’ eyes widened in surprise. Okay, Dean wasn’t a _total_ dick, really. Of course they didn’t deserve _death_ . “I am. People were killed, Dean. Because they were born a certain way. Killed by _your_ soldiers, and most of them were peaceful, helpful, even. My mother was a healer and she was murdered in the street for trying to save a girl’s life, and it isn’t fair.”

“Hey, those weren’t my soldiers. I was just a kid when that was happening.” Dean stared at Cas, who refused to look him in the eyes. He sighed. Fuck. Whatever, he’d never agreed with that whole debacle anyway. “But... you're right. It wasn’t fair. I don’t stand by that, people being killed like they were.”

Cas narrowed his eyes at him. “But you agree with the law, that we don’t deserve magic?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, Cas. But I get it. Crowley was— _is—_ scared. Magic died out in the royal family a long time ago, and then there were people that could breathe fire and cause earthquakes— that’s pretty terrifying. You can’t control those people, and if anyone wanted to start something, it’d be pretty easy to overthrow the King and enslave anyone without powers.”

Cas sighed, rubbing at his eye with his good hand. “I suppose you have a point. But there was no guarantee that anything like that would have ever happened and besides, if it did, I assure you the entire community of Celestials would not feel the same. It would not be a split of us versus you. Fear made monsters out of the King and his soldiers.”

Dean held his gaze for a moment. It was a messy subject for a million reasons, but still Dean probed, “So you're Celestial, then?”

Cas looked down. “I was,” he grumbled. “What’s an Angel without its wings?”

“I doubt you ever had wings.”

A ghost of a smile came to Cas’ lips. “It’s a metaphor. I mean that the term Celestial refers to a human with Angelic powers, when I have none.”

“What were they?”

Cas sighed deeply, finally sitting up and stretching his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. “I took after my mother, as a healer. I was very young when I had that power taken from me, but I miss it. It feels as though I’ve lost one of my senses, a limb, even. I see people hurting, and I think that I should be able to help, but I can’t.”

Dean nodded in sympathy. “I’m sorry.” It was stupid and useless, but it was all he had to offer.

Cas smiled, a bittersweet expression. “Yes.” He looked up at Dean, head tilted slightly. “You said your parents were dead as well. What happened to them?”

It was Dean’s turn to break away from his gaze and stare into his lap. The old lie came to his tongue— how they’d been passing through Lawrence when the fires started, he and Sam far removed from the flames— but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Cas about something else.

“I’m— I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” he said finally, letting it out on a shuddering breath. “But I—” He closed his eyes. What a truly, supremely awful idea. “Lawrence. I’m from Lawrence. And my parents died in the fires. I took my brother and we stowed away on a merchant’s carriage all the way to Revelan.”

When Dean opened his eyes, he found Cas staring at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. He blushed immediately. _Way to overshare, Dean._

“But… there were no survivors in Lawrence. Surely if two children had escaped, something would have been reported, someone would have noticed.”

Dean laughed bitterly. “Obviously not. So many people died, you really think anyone was looking too hard for more bodies? No. Me and Sam made it to Revelan, and Bobby found us on the street and raised us, told everyone we were his sister’s kids. He was a paranoid bastard and thought something was really fishy about the fire, so he told us to tell anyone who asks that they were passing through Lawrence on their way from Lavendel back to Revelan.” Dean glanced at Cas for a brief moment before returning his gaze to the ground. “I’ve never— no one knows that. Sammy doesn’t even know that, he was too young to remember.”

“That’s… remarkable. Historical, actually. How did you get out?”

Dean shrugged. “I just… my dad pushed Sammy into my arms, he was just a baby, and I ran. We didn’t live that far from the road, and these merchants had pulled over to watch the city burn, so me and Sammy piled into the back and hitched a ride all the way to the sea.” Dean jerked his head up sharply and stared at Cas with wide eyes. “Cas,” he pleaded, “you can’t say anything, to anyone, ever. When I said no one knows that, I meant _no one._ I’ve lied to the King for _years._ I—”

“Dean,” Cas said, voice softer than he’d ever heard it, “Relax. Your secret is safe with me.”

Dean closed his eyes, letting out a breath and giving him a grateful, if shaky, smile. Why did he have to be so awesome? “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas smiled back, but not a full on, toothy grin. Dean had yet to pull one of those out of him. “You're welcome, Dean.”

 

 

“Charlie,” Dean called, “Charlie! What in the name of the Angels are you doing?”

Charlie blushed. “I am, uh…”

“You're setting a bad example.”

“Yeah, well, you're just standing there. That’s an awful example,” Charlie quipped, hands on her hips.

“Charlie, we don’t twirl our swords around like fucking idiots,” Dean scolded, pacing along the outside of the square ring where twenty-four people parried and slashed against each other. On the other side of the room, another twenty-four soldiers performed the same movements. He really should have been in there with them, but he was out of practice and didn’t need their taunts right now. He and Meg would go practice on their own later, once the second shift of group training was over. Obviously, all one hundred members of the guard couldn’t be in one place at a time, so training was done in shifts.

Dean had missed training for several weeks now. Meg, as his second in command, had taken over his duties while he was stalking Cas, and as far as Dean could tell since returning, she had done a fairly decent job.

Meg was only Dean’s second so no one could accuse him of favoritism, as he definitely did not like her. She was very skilled, but her mean, snarky attitude got on Dean’s nerves. Not to the point where he couldn’t stand her, but enough that he was aggravated at some point during the day, most days.

“I’m not acting like an idiot. It’s cool,” Charlie defended, twirling her sword around even more to prove it to him. Unsurprisingly, she dropped her sword and blushed furiously, her face matching her hair.

Dean nodded and called out to the rest of his soldiers, “I want everyone to remember what just happened.”

Benny shook his head at Charlie as she bent over to picked it up. The moment she had it, she lunged back into action against him. The group of soldiers in her ring was made up of half the City Guard, Dean’s personal favorite group. All his best people were in there— Charlie, Benny, Jo, Kevin, Garth, Jody, Donna, Victor. He tended to spend more time working with the City Guard while Meg handled the Royal Guard. Dean was, officially, in charge, and any decisions she made went through him. However, he wouldn’t be offended if the Royal Guard thought of her as their leader more than him, even though he ran all the training sessions and gave out assignments. She was the one who kept them in line and handled everything at the castle while Dean was on the streets.

It didn’t bother him in the least. The Royal Guard kinda just stood around all day, and were more focused on Crowley than anything else. The City Guard got to walk around and talk to people, were more focused on public safety and helping the everyday people. It was the reason Dean had joined the Guard in the first place.

Dean jumped when Meg seemed to materialize at Dean’s shoulder. “Angels,” he exclaimed. “Wear a bell!”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “You ever gonna tell me where you were during the two weeks I was in charge?”

“Nope.”

“King’s orders?”

“Not gonna tell you that, either.”

“So, yes.”

Dean huffed and glared at her. “Don’t worry about it, Meg.”

She raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not. I’m just nosy.”

Dean glared at her again. “Round everyone up, we’re doing extra laps today.”

Meg grinned. “Sweet. Love making them suffer.”

“It’s not suffering, Meg, it’s exercise. They’ll thank me one day.”

“It’s just fun to watch them try and keep up. Attention, underlings!” Meg called, bringing both groups of fighters to a halt.

“ _I_ could have yelled,” Dean muttered. Meg rolled her eyes.

“Captain says we’re doing extra laps today! Drop your swords and get out on the lawn!”

As predicted, everyone groaned as they dropped their weapons and shed their armor, trudging out onto the castle grounds. Dean and Meg went to the front of the group— she was right, no one could keep up with the two of them. They were in charge for a reason.

“Okay,” Dean called, stretching out his quads, the rest following suit. “Let’s move, people!”

 

 

“Dean. Dean, no. What are you doing? No.”

Dean huffed and put his horsey thing back on the square it’d been on before he’d moved it. Chess was just not his game, but he was tired of watching Cas play it by himself. It was dumb, but he was committed to learning. “What did I do now?”

“The knight doesn’t go straight. It goes up two squares and over one square, or up one square and over two squares.”

Dean groaned. “Can’t it go back?”

“Well, yes, but you don’t have anywhere back to go.”

Dean looked up at Cas. He was smiling slightly, an amused glint in his eye. Dean couldn’t help but smile in return, even if Cas’ amusement was at his own expense. “What?”

Cas sighed, looking down at the chessboard, smile only growing. “It’s just that it seems that you, military strategist and soldier yourself, would be better at chess.”

Dean glared at him. “Fuck you, I’m _learning.”_

Cas just shook his head and gestured at the board. “It’s your move, Dean.”

Dean sighed heavily and dropped his gaze to his pieces once more, chin in his hand. This game was legitimate bullshit. You just moved a bunch of tokens around, except each of them could only move certain ways and one at a time, which was basically the most ineffective army ever. Dean picked up a pawn and pushed it forward one space. It was his go-to move.

“You're not even trying,” Cas grumbled as he snapped up the pawn with one simple, obvious move.

“Don’t you play any other games?” Dean asked as he tentatively pushed his weird tower thing— a rook?— forward to the same row his deceased pawn had travelled to. He squinted as he looked around the board for any of Cas’ little black pieces in a position to kill him again. The fucker wasn’t getting him this time.

Cas shrugged. “I have checkers, but I do not enjoy it. There are always word games as well, riddles and the like.”

“Ugh, I hate checkers,” Dean agreed, taking his finger off the piece. He felt pretty good about that, and he was about 92% sure that if Cas didn’t move his bishop thing or whatever that Dean could kill it in his next move.

“It’s rather tedious. And too often the winner is obvious early on and it becomes pitiful,” Cas said, moving his knight forward to take another of Dean’s pawns. Dean smirked as he slid his rook across the board, snatching Cas’ bishop.

“Ha! I got you, finally!”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I would not be feeling so cocky. I still have five of your pawns, a knight, and both your bishops.”

“Whatever. I’m making a comeback.”

“I’m sure.”

Cas halted in making his move when they heard a sharp knock at the door. Dean looked at him curiously. He hadn’t thought Cas had any other friends.

Cas stood tentatively and went to the door. Dean stood as well, for some reason.

On the other side of the door were two women dressed in Guard uniforms, one blonde and the other brunette. Donna and Jody. Dean frowned. They weren’t supposed to be there.

Jody cleared her throat. “Hello, we were told we could find Captain Winchester here?”

“Yo, Jody, Donna, what’s up?” Dean said, crossing to the doorway and leaning against the frame. Donna smiled brightly at him; Jody straightened.

“Captain—”

“C’mon, Jody, really?”

Jody rolled her eyes. “Dean. We— um. There might be a… situation and no one— no one’s really sure what to do about it.”

Dean frowned. “What happened?”

Jody and Donna traded awkward looks, like neither of them wanted to explain, or perhaps neither of them knew how. Dean’s frown deepened.

“Well,” Donna started, a nervous edge to her normally cheery voice, “It’s… bad.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Awesome, thanks, Donna. I’ll get right on that.”

Jody huffed, glaring between both of them. “There’s a kid, we have her in custody at the palace right now. She… we’re not quite sure what happened. Kevin and Garth found her standing over a body. Another kid. He’s… well…”

Horror, black and churning, rose in Dean’s chest. He closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. Something awful had been bound to happen, he knew it. Everything had been so quiet for so long.

He hadn’t been expecting anything like this, though.

Dean rubbed at his eyes. “Fuck. Yeah, that’s bad. Okay. I’ll— I’ll deal with her. Do we know who the kids are?”

“The dead kid is Andy Gallagher. The… suspect is Ava Wilson,” Jody provided, swinging her arms behind her and clasping her hands at her back.

Dean sighed and leaned more of his body against his door frame. He knew those kids. They were friends, their families hung around the Roadhouse. “Go find their parents. Take a carriage, I doubt anyone’s gonna be up for walking once they hear what happened. Who’s with the girl right now?”

“Meg and Garth. They haven’t said anything to her, they’re waiting for your instructions. Kevin’s at the crime scene handling everything there, and everyone else is business as usual.”

Dean nodded, drawing away from the wall and forcing himself to stand straight. “Good. So you two go and get the parents, I’ll talk to Ava.”

Jody and Donna both saluted and left, neither of them speaking a word the whole way down the hall.

Cas closed the door behind them. Dean had almost forgotten he was there, to be honest. Dean didn’t move, just stared at the wood grains in front of him.

“Dean?” Cas asked, pulling on Dean’s sleeve.

Dean closed his eyes again. Deep breath. He turned around, facing the empty room instead of the door but not looking at Cas. He could hardly even process this. It was hard enough for him to understand adults murdering other adults, but Ava was just a kid, and so was Andy. The information just wouldn’t sit right in his brain. It didn’t make any sense.

He breathed out. “Yeah. Yeah.” His gaze darted over to Cas, who looked just as disturbed as Dean felt. “So, I have to go.”

“Yes, I got that.” Cas fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, opening his mouth for a second before shutting it. Dean hadn’t realized Cas was still hanging onto him. Or, rather, his sleeve. Angels, they were standing close, though. Had they always stood this close? “Good luck, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.”

Dean let himself stare for a moment while Cas looked down at the ground, face brooding. He almost reached out to him, reassure him and let him know that everything was going to be okay. But he didn’t know that, and instead closed his fist and turned away.

“Bye, Cas.”

 

 

Ava sat with her hands in her lap, a bored look on her face. Dean paced in front of the table, arms crossed. Meg stood in the corner, Garth having been sent back to the crime scene to help Kevin.

“Ava,” Dean pleaded, stopping in front of her, “Ava, I just need to know what happened.”

Ava looked up and met his gaze, an eerie, empty look in her eyes. “I killed Andy,” she said simply, maintaining eye contact until Dean looked away, the empty stare chilling him to the bone.

He closed his eyes for a brief second. “Why did you do that?”

Ava shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You're telling me you killed your friend for no reason?” Dean turned slightly and looked at Meg, who was squinting at the young girl suspiciously. She snapped her gaze to Dean’s and raised her eyebrows. She believed her, then. Great.

“Why do I need a reason? My mom said that when I was a baby someone took my powers away for no reason. Apparently, reasons don’t matter.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. This girl was a Celestial, or had been. ‘ _It feels as though I’ve lost one of my senses, a limb, even’,_ Cas had said. Dean had read countless stories about people who lost their sight or hearing and went crazy, unable to cope with the loss and panicked. A heavy stone of dread fell into his stomach.

The most chilling part of Ava’s statement was the utter… emptiness behind it. Like she didn’t even care, about Andy or her actions or anything.

“They do matter, Ava. You can’t kill people.”

Ava laughed, rolling her eyes. “Pretty sure I just did, so.”

The door to the interrogation room eased open, Donna’s blonde head poking through. “Cap, the parents are here. Both sets.”

Dean sighed. “Thanks, Donna.” Donna slipped back out of the room, and Dean turned to Meg. “You got this?”

Meg nodded, a blank, steady expression on her face. That meant trouble. “Sure. I’ll report in an hour.”

Dean gave her a grateful sort of half-smile before following Donna out the door. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and said nothing as Dean followed her down the hall out to a cushy waiting room.

Dean hated talking to family members. Ava’s parents were outraged that their daughter would ever be accused of such a thing but fell silent when Dean told them of her confession, her emptiness. Andy’s parents were confused, lost in shock and grief and the endless loop of _how did this happen?_

True to her word, an hour after Dean had left Ava in the interrogation room, Meg came to report what she’d gleaned from the girl.

Meg shrugged, not a casual gesture, but a hopeless one. “I don’t know. I don’t— it’s so fucked up, Dean. She just killed him. She didn’t even have a motive! She just decided to kill him one day. That’s not _normal.”_

Dean buried his face in his hands. “No.” He shook his head, thinking, then instructed, “Take her to the med bay, have them run tests on her, see if maybe she was drugged or brainwashed.”

Meg nodded and exited, while Dean stood to go talk to the parents again.

They went through relentless interrogations, looking for any kind of hint— violent outbursts, spending too much time away from home, new friends— anything that would make any sort of sense. But there was nothing. She just snapped suddenly, and killed Andy Gallagher.

So Dean talked to Andy’s parents. They didn’t report anything remotely suspicious, either. Better yet, Ava returned from the med bay without Frank detecting a trace of any outside forces affecting her. By the end of the day, Dean was tired and frustrated and just sad. He’d so badly wanted this to make sense, for Ava to be as much of a victim as Andy, but it looked like that was just not the case.

Dean stood from his desk, slamming down the report he’d been filing. He’d do it tomorrow. For now, he couldn’t stand to be in the castle. He headed back to his chambers, changed into all black clothing and lighter boots, and dropped his pin onto the bed before swinging his cloak around his shoulders.

He left the castle and walked, no particular destination in mind as he stalked through the streets. He tried not to let the day’s events pervade his mind further, but the heavy feeling of despair they brought remained. He didn’t even pay attention to where he was going, letting his feet carry him as they willed.

He ended up on the West edge of the city, looking out at the mountains beyond Lavendel; they surrounded the city in a semicircle stretching from the West to the North and stopped at the edge of the Hale forest, the Eastern border of the capital. To the South were the farmlands and the roads to the rest of Eureva: Revelan, Haveteur, and the charred husk of Lawrence.

Dean stood there, watching the still side of the mountain until rays of sun crept over his shoulder, casting golden light onto the cobblestones under his feet. He sighed. He should go over to Cas’ place. Both of them knew he didn’t really need Dean’s help, but Dean had a mission and Cas didn’t seem to have anyone else in his life.

Besides, Dean thought idly as he turned and headed down the still-deserted streets back to Cas’ apartment, he liked Cas.

He hated himself and Crowley and the world for it, but he did. Cas was sweet and passionate. Brilliant, too, and though Dean still hadn’t managed to make him smile for real, he’d gotten many little half-grins while Cas stared down at his lap. One of these days, though. Dean was determined.

_Before Dean would have to betray him._

The thought slid cold and heavy through his veins, weighing on his heart. He could go around and around with that, trying to find some solution to this, but he would always end up with the same answer; he was loyal to King. He had a duty to the city, the country, and Cas wasn’t one of the good guys. He was a power-hungry thief who was probably using Dean as much as Dean was using him.

The trouble was that it was too easy to pretend otherwise. Pretend they had all the time in the world to just be friends and hang out, and in those rare moments when Dean looked just a moment too long, he could pretend he didn’t feel his chest caving in.

Dean jogged up the stairs to Cas’ third-floor apartment. He closed his eyes and sighed before gently easing the door open. The curtains were flung open, and sunlight flooded through the small room, bouncing off every wall and back out the windows, though there were only two.

Cas was curled up on his sofa that doubled as a bed with his knees drawn to his chest and hands folded under his head. He looked like a child, innocently dozing. He snored, just a little, enough to make Dean smile as he crouched next to his friend. He intended to wake him up, but ultimately just studied him. He looked so peaceful, the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed, his lips parted slightly. Rough stubble coated his cheeks and chin, and Dean found he didn’t have the heart to wake him. The sun would do its job eventually.

Instead, he walked as quietly as he could manage to the rows of shelves in the corner to start making some breakfast. Cas didn’t have much, but he did have some bread, and that was enough for Dean, though he did make sure to leave a bit for Cas whenever he woke up.

Bored and finished eating, Dean decided to make more bread. He should have taken the time to snoop, but he didn’t have it in him that morning. The loaf he’d just finished off was one they’d made a week ago, so he knew all the ingredients were around somewhere. He gathered everything he needed and set to work, despite the exhaustion dragging down his bones.

Cas began stirring as Dean was setting the dough in a pan to let it rise. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head and then, as if sensing another human presence, he shot straight up, shoulders tense. He slumped back down once he realized it was just Dean.

“Hello, Dean. I did not expect you this morning.”

Dean shrugged, averting his eyes from the strip of skin just visible on Cas’ stomach to the floor. “Not much left to do, actually. Simpler case than I thought.” It didn’t feel simpler, not in the least, and not just because the victim was a kid, not even because the killer was a kid. It was the nagging feeling of wrongness, some missing piece that Dean couldn’t see.

He just didn’t understand, and the worst part was that he didn’t understand what it _was_ that he didn’t understand.

Cas frowned, sitting up again. “That’s strange.”

Dean shrugged again, turning back to the bread and lifting the cloth he’d tossed over it. No change, unsurprisingly. “Is what it is. Don’t really wanna talk about it.”

The frown in Cas’ voice was visible even with Dean’s back turned. “Have you slept?”

“No. I couldn’t.”

Cas was silent for a moment before standing and shuffling over to Dean and staring down at his in-progress bread. “You should sleep. You have to go back to work in a few hours.”

Dean sighed. This was true. Training to run, more papers to take care of, and he’d have to figure out what exactly they were to do with Ava, who was undeniably still a danger. Would she even need a trial? She’d outright confessed and wasn’t even ashamed.

Some part of Dean worried if she was put on trial, a jury would have her hanged.

He wasn’t sure he could watch that.

“Yeah, but I’m making bread,” he protested. If he was tired, maybe his brain would just work on overdrive, do everything he needed to do without making him think about it too much.

“Dean,” Cas said in a soft voice that practically commanded Dean to turn his head and look at his friend. He seemed worried, worried about Dean. The thought did something funny inside his chest, warmth seeping into him. “You already made the bread. I can put it in the oven once it’s risen. Sleep.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, lips parting to make way for some other excuse that never came. He just nodded and stumbled back towards the sofa. _Damn those blue eyes._

Dean laid gently on the sofa and was asleep in an instant.

 

 

Ava was dead within three days.

She’d been staying in the castle dungeon, awaiting a trial, and Dean hadn’t been to see her since the day after Andy’s death. She’d held her hands in tight fists through their entire conversations and spoke almost exclusively in frustrated screams. Dean had told Donna to keep an eye on her.

The next day, Donna had reported that Ava was scratching herself, leaving long gashes on her forearms and ripping her nails to shreds. She’d been sent to the med bay once more, with Jody and Donna there to restrain her.

The night before her death, other prisoners and guards claimed they heard her screaming her skull off, pounding on the bars, sobbing. In the morning, she’d scratched so hard at her wrists that she’d bled out.

It was obvious that she’d gone insane, maybe from the guilt of murdering her friend, grief, or perhaps it was insanity that had driven her to murder in the first place. They would never know.

And it frustrated Dean to no end. If she _had_ gone insane, how? What happened to her? People didn’t just snap like that for no reason.

But it didn’t matter. She was dead and they would never have the answers. Her body had been returned to her parents, as Dean didn’t have the heart to send a child to the Tortured Graveyard, a cemetery for criminals.

As the rest of the guard and the city moved past the incident, it lurked in Dean’s brain like a coiled snake. Something— everything— about the situation unnerved him to no end.

But he pushed it away, he had to. It didn’t matter anymore. It was over.

Cas sat across Dean, holding his sword reverently. Dean had threatened to run him through with it if he dropped her. It was nearly indestructible, but still. The blade was razor-sharp black steel with an intricately carved hilt, also of steel. It was Dean’s most prized possession, if he was being honest. In Revelan, Bobby had been a swordmaker and crafted this one specifically for Dean when he’d announced that he and Sam were going to Lavendel.

Dean missed Bobby. They wrote, frequently, but it wasn’t the same. Maybe someday he and Sam, and Jess, probably, would go on a vacation to the shore.

Cas handed the sword back, gently. “It’s very impressive.”

Dean grinned. “I’ll tell Bobby you think so.”

Cas smiled slightly, leaning back against the wall, the picture of casual grace. “Yes. He made this for you when you left?”

Dean nodded absently as he slid the sword back into its scabbard. “Yep. The Guard in Revelan recruited me, but the only open spot was here. When I told Bobby Sam and I were leaving, he gave me this.”

Cas tilted his head at Dean, an _unfairly_ adorable gesture. “Why did you bring Sam with you? Was Bobby incapable of supporting him?”

“No, no, that’s not it. It’s just that… I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave him. Besides, he wanted to come and we’d been freeloading off Bobby for fourteen years by then. It was time for us to move on.” Dean would never be able to repay Bobby for what he’d done for them. It also didn’t help that the old bladesmith wouldn’t let him.

Cas squinted, doing the math on his fingers. “Sam is awfully young to be running a business, much less a bar.”

“Kid’s a genius. Plus, he has Jess, who is also pretty frickin’ smart. I think both of them could be doing more, but they’re happy where they are, so.” Dean shrugged.

Cas stared at him for a moment. “You're very smart as well, Dean.”

Dean laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. He hated when people told him that. It felt like another lie, like he’d tricked everyone into thinking more of him than he really was. “Nah. Sammy’s the brains, I’m the brawn.”

“They don’t make ‘brawn’ Captains. Especially if they’re only twenty-four.”

“Well, I’m twenty-five now,” Dean mumbled, face burning. Accepting compliments wasn’t one of his stronger skills. And for some reason, praise from Cas not only made his face heat, but his stomach twist in uncomfortable knots and his heart pound.

“That’s not the point. You're much more than you give yourself credit for, Dean.”

Dean cleared his throat, glancing up only to see Cas’ eyes locked on his with a steely gaze. He looked down again. “Yeah. Whatever. Um, what are you reading right now?”

Dean felt it safe to look up again, but Cas’ eyes were still on him. This time, Dean stared back challengingly until Cas sighed and reached across the floor for his book. _“Memoirs of Samuel Colt._ The King who—”

“Brought his wife back from the Dead Lands,” Dean finished. “I didn’t know he had memoirs.”

Cas nodded as he flipped through the pages. “They’re interesting, though I wish he’d detailed the Dead Lands more. He doesn’t say much, except that he couldn’t let go of his wife until she was returned to her mortal body, to anchor her soul to the world of the living.”

“Wow. That means he had to go through the Ocean one-handed. That’s… impressive.”

Cas looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “Have you ever been in the Ocean?”

“Angels, no.” Dean hastily changed the subject. The Ocean was a bit of a sore spot for him, even now that he was living so far from it. It still haunted him sometimes. “What’s in there besides that?”

Cas shrugged. “Struggles of ruling, his children. Nothing particularly interesting so far.”

“What could he possibly have to say about his kids?”

“Actually, did you know he was the first King with a first-born daughter that was actually given the throne? That’s why the Royal name changed to Campbell, after she married.”

Dean frowned. “So Crowley’s last name is Campbell? I’ve never heard that name before.” Dean felt like he had, actually, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Cas frowned too, brow furrowing. “Nor I.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something about that, maybe how strange it was or a suggestion about looking into it, but he shook his head. He felt funny, like his thoughts had gone… fuzzy.

Cas shook his head, too, as if ridding himself of a similar sensation. “And his son was Captain of the Guard.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “A pencil-pushing Prince?”

“Just because Crowley is a pencil-pusher doesn’t mean all Kings were. Almost every member of the royal line was trained in combat. Perhaps Crowley just doesn’t prefer it.”

“Thinks he’s too good for it, more like,” Dean muttered.

It was Cas’ turn to raise an eyebrow. “You don’t like the King?”

Dean sighed and met his gaze for a few moments before speaking. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met him,” —he had and Dean knew it— “but he’s a bit of an ass. If ‘a bit’ means the same as ‘huge and gigantic.’”

Cas smiled. “I imagine being in charge of everyone _could_ lead to an inflated ego.”

“Think Colt had an inflated ego?”

“Not as far as I can tell, but maybe he hid it on purpose.”

Dean snorted, pulling himself up and extending a hand to Cas. “Well, I guarantee he wasn’t as bad as Crowley. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though.”

“You have my word.”

 

 

The scream rang out clear as a bell through the empty city streets, making both Dean and Jo jump. They exchanged a dark look and then set off running towards the continued screaming.

Night patrol was never exactly quiet, per se, but there was something especially eerie about petrified screaming on a still road in a good neighborhood.

They skidded to a stop in front of a small shop with what appeared to be an apartment above it. The windows promised palm readings, crystal ball gazing, seances, and tarot card readings. Dean found it ironic that whoever lived and/or worked here hadn’t seen this coming.

Jo darted ahead of Dean to the fire escape that led up to the door of the apartment. The door was unlocked, and the two of them burst inside.

The screamer was a man, kneeling behind a sofa and sobbing uncontrollably. Dean nodded at Jo for her to go to him while he drew his sword, just in case.

“Sir,” Jo said, going around the couch to his back. “Sir, are you— Oh, Angels. Dean?”

At  Jo’s tone, Dean sheathed his sword and went around the other side of the couch. The man stopped screaming, instead dissolving into anguished tears. In front of him lay a woman, very obviously dead.

But the sight of death wasn’t what gave Dean pause or what had his stomach lurch. It was her wrists, the mangled sight of them so terribly familiar.

She bore the same madness-driven cuts on her arms that Ava had, wounds she’d carved into her own skin. They were almost identical, jagged scars running all the way beyond her elbow. Some were continuous, some started and stopped on the way up her arms. Her nails were torn and shredded, caked in blood.

It shouldn’t have been possible, yet there they were.

Jo looked up at Dean. She hadn’t seen Ava’s body. “Dean?”

Dean took a deep breath and looked up at her. “Take him to the castle, and tell anyone you run into on the way to get over here.”

Jo bit her lip but nodded and helped the man to his feet, leading him back out the door. Dean sat on the ground and waited for another team to show up. There was a certain procedure for removing bodies that he had to follow.

How could there be two victims that had killed themselves in the same horrifying way? It was impossible that two people shared the same manner of madness.

Dean remembered stories of a terrible plague that had swept the nation before he was even born, a plague so bad that the King had given out free vaccinations to every single citizen as soon as they were available. Could this be its return?

Except that plague was a sickness in the blood, quite literally boiling people from the inside out. This seemed to be a sickness of the mind. But why? How did they get it? Or, rather, how did it get them?

Dean wasn’t there long before Benny and Charlie showed up, panting and out of breath. He told Benny to wait with the body while he and Charlie went back to the castle to fetch the coroner and a carriage back to the apartment. They shut down the area and got back to work.

They were only done with the clean-up by the time the sun rose, and Dean hadn’t even begun questioning the screaming man. Then there would be reports, endless reports, and there had to be tests run on the victim and families to notify and—

And yet Dean found himself ordering the carriage to Cas’ apartment. It seemed somehow wrong to just ditch him without telling him something.

He was already awake when Dean stumbled in the door, dirty and sweaty, covered in dried blood. Cas, sitting against the wall with a book in hand, raised his eyebrows. He looked sleepy and it was too easy for Dean to picture him laying next to him in bed, just waking up. “Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean straightened, pushing his hair off his forehead. “Yeah, yeah. I only have a second though, there’s been another death and I have all kinds of shit to take care of—”

“Another murder?” Cas asked, brow furrowing.

Dean shook his head. “Suicide, I think. It’s just… weird. I’ll explain later, I just didn’t want you wondering where I was or anything.”

“Oh,” Cas said, but the word seemed to fall dead in the entire space of the room between them. It was suddenly awkward, and Dean couldn’t put his finger on why. “Then I will see you tomorrow, barring another death or emergency.”

“Yeah, hopefully. Bye, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

 

 

Dean shooed Meg out of the interrogation room. She pursed her lips but obeyed, though Dean was sure she would be trying her best to listen at the door. The man who had been with the victim sat at the table, hands folded in his lap and eyes red.

“What’s your name, again?” Dean asked, pulling out a blank sheet of paper.

The man sniffed. “Jesse. I’m Pamela’s ex-husband.”

“Pamela, the victim?”

“Yes.”

Dean nodded and wrote that down. “And what were you doing in her apartment at night, then, if you're split up?”

Jesse rolled his eyes. “It was barely after sundown.”

Wow, that meant Dean hadn’t slept in a while. He usually only patrolled at night until the witching hour, when he would either return to the castle or the Roadhouse to sleep, whatever was closer.

“And I was going to talk to her about our horses, see if she wanted them back. I’m tired of taking care of them. I walked in and she was just… dead.” A single tear ran down Jesse’s face. Dean was sure he would feel more sympathetic if he wasn’t so tired. He wrote it down, though.

He had pretty much everything he needed to know, except… something Ava had said a week prior tugged at his mind. “Pamela… was she Celestial?”

Jesse sighed. “She doesn’t remember it very well, but yeah. She was just a kid when they took her powers. “

“Anything to do with fortune-telling?”

“Yeah. I think she was trying to… call it back, I guess, with the shop.” Jesse looked down at the table. “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek. It had to mean something, right? He sighed. “Alright, thanks. You can… go home, get some rest. Any family of Pamela’s we should contact?”

Jesse shook his head. “Just me and her.”

“Then some lawyers will be in contact. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Jesse just gave him a fake smile and left. Dean couldn’t help but think of the sole connection between the victims, the connection to Cas.

There had to be something else.

 

 

“Ugh,” Dean said, his voice muffled through the arm over his face, “Sam, I’m exhausted. I don’t _wanna_ meet any new people. I don’t _care_ how good her burgers are.”

Sam gave him a bitchy huff. “It’ll take five minutes, what with the way you inhale your food.”

“Great. I’ll wake up at some point. And it’s not like me coming here is a rare thing, you know. I’m always in the mood for a burger. Just... Not right now.”

Sam sighed and leaned heavily against the doorframe, swiping a hand over his face. “Are you even gonna tell me what happened?”

 _“Later._ Would you just let me sleep?”

“Dean, I’m worried, okay? First there was the whole thing with the King that’s so top-secret you can’t even tell _me._ Secondly, I hear about all the deaths, okay, more stuff that you wouldn’t tell me. And then—”

“Dean?”

The new voice shut Sam right up and had Dean vaulting off the bed to his feet. Cas stood in the doorway, just behind Sam, clutching his cloak in his good hand nervously and blue eyes wide. Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, who glared at him.

“Cas,” he said, doing his best to sound surprised but not quite pulling it off. He was just too tired and actually kind of glad to see him. “What’re you doing here?”

Cas cleared his throat with a nervous glance towards Sam. “I. Um. You seemed rather- frazzled, this morning, and I was… concerned. For you. And. I, uh, wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Sam’s brows practically hit the roof. “Hm,” he said. “So that’s why you haven’t been here for breakfast. I see.”

Dean blushed furiously. “Not like that, Sam, go eat a bar of soap.”

“Well, if it’s not like _that_ — _”_

“Am I not allowed to have friends?” Cas was blushing now, too, and Dean wanted to stab himself with a fork. Or maybe stab his brother with a fork. “I should-” Cas started with another glance to Sam, “I should go. You seem to be fine.” He disappeared out of the doorway, and Dean followed with a dark glare to Sam.

He caught Cas halfway down the stairs. “Cas, hey,” he said, checking to make sure Sam hadn’t followed him, “Sorry about Sam, he’s kind of a bitch.”

“You speak very highly of him when you're not in his presence.”

“That’s because I forget how much of a bitch he is.” Cas raised an eyebrow at him. “You met him, right? He’s a bitch.”

“I was under the impression that that was how sibling relationships worked.”

“It is.” Dean shrugged. “Anyway, I’m fine. Really. I just don’t really wanna talk about what happened.”

Cas nodded. “Sam said there were deaths?”

Dean sighed, rubbing at his cheek with his hand. Damn, he was tired. Hopefully when Cas went home Sam would finally leave him the fuck alone and he could get some sleep. “Yeah, no murders, just two suicides since the kid. Andy.”

“That’s… disturbing.”

“You got no friggin’ idea.” Dean studied Cas’ face for a moment, until the other man looked down to his feet. They were on the same step facing each other, and it wasn’t until that exact moment that Dean realized how close they were. He didn’t move, though. He wasn’t sure he could. “You should go home. I’m just gonna get my four hours before I meet Jo for the night shift.”

Cas looked back up and nodded. “I hope you're aware that more than four hours of sleep is required.”

“Maybe for lazy slackers who don’t have jobs.” Cas glared at him and Dean grinned, if a bit half-heartedly. “Kidding. I promise I’ll sleep after my shift.”

“And you’ll be there in the morning?”

Cas’ voice, so vulnerable and open, did something to Dean’s chest that had him biting down on a whimper and a desire to lean in and kiss him, right then and there. Instead he just smiled slightly, very carefully taking a step up the stairs.

“Yeah, Cas, I’ll be there.”

 

 

“So the suicides were identical?”

Dean nodded, folding his arms on the table in front of him. Per Sam’s request— demand, really— Cas was with him at the Roadhouse for breakfast that morning. Sam had claimed they needed a chaperone, but they hadn’t even seen the moose in the hour they’d been there. They’d seen a bit of Jess flitting through the tables, waving at them whenever she caught their eyes, but Sam was in the kitchen helping his new cook adjust.

“Yeah. Their paths never once crossed, at least not significantly, but somehow they offed themselves in the same way.”

“Interesting, though, that Ava killed someone before killing herself yet Pamela had no other victims?”

“No missing persons, no bodies found. It’s weird, I agree.”

“Are you sure they’re not connected in any way?”

Dean hesitated, gaze darting from the table to Cas and back again. “Well— maybe. I don’t know. There’s… something, but it could just be coincidence.”

“What is it?”

Dean shook his head, plucking the salt shaker out of the little basket nailed to the wall. He started spilling it into his palm. Cas just watched him with a frown. “No, it’d just freak you out. If it keeps happening… I don’t know. You’d just get worried.”

Cas’ frown deepened. “Whatever it is—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, dropping the salt shaker back into the basket and the grains in his hand to the floor with a sharp flick of the wrist. He looked Cas directly in the eye. “Can we just drop it?”

Cas didn’t answer right away as he studied Dean’s face, the tired set of his mouth, the stubble on his cheeks and the heavy determination in his eyes. “You seem to prefer not sleeping in your own bed, in the castle.”

“That’s because I live in a shoebox. And sometimes I get lost on my way to my room.” Cas smirked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s _dark._ And I’m usually tired. Shut up,” Dean said as Jess walked over to them and plopped next to Dean. Without them even realizing it, the breakfast crowd had gone.

“Whatcha talking about?”

“Dean apparently doesn’t know where he lives.”

“That is not true. It’s a big castle. A big, dark, castle. I’d like to see either of you try and get around at night.”

They were both spared answering by the arrival of Sam, who sat across from Jess next to Cas. Cas glanced at Dean, fear in his eyes, before scooting over to give Sam more room. “Hey. Does anyone remember if people are still vaccinated for that plague thing that happened like, a trillion years ago?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but it was Cas who answered. “The plague was cured twenty-seven years ago, and vaccinations are available to anyone who requests one. Why do you ask?”

Sam shrugged. “Just curious. Eileen was saying something about how she wasn’t vaccinated and how that might be a problem, handling food and all, and I realized I don’t even know if I was vaccinated. I could be susceptible.”

Dean scoffed at that. “Sam. You were vaccinated. You were only born like six years after it ended, of course you were. I’d say everyone over the age of fifteen in this country is vaccinated. And the plague is over. No one’s susceptible.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to know.” Sam settled his hands on the table then smirked as he met his brother’s eyes. “Anyway, how was your date?”

Cas blushed. Dean rolled his eyes, trying to feign annoyance rather than embarrassment. Sam would see right through that. “If this was a date, you’d be crashing it, you know.”

“Uh, yeah, you say that like you didn’t crash our first two dates,” Jess pointed out, bumping Dean’s shoulder.

“You could have been a terrorist, Jessica. I had to make sure you checked out.”

“Great way to do that would be talking to me instead of stalking us.”

“I was trying to be covert.”

“You failed spectacularly.”

“You only think that because you don’t know that I actually stalked your first _five_ dates,” Dean said smugly. He laughed outright when Sam’s jaw dropped and started sputtering. Jess laughed with him.

Cas shook his head, though there was an obvious hint of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. “Dean,” he said seriously, “I would not be bragging about how skilled you are at stalking people.”

Dean just winked at him. To be honest, he’d been worried about Cas and his family in the same room (not that he should have been. Cas shouldn’t be meeting his family, it shouldn’t matter what he thinks of them or what they think of him, because Cas _wasn’t_ supposed to matter), but he seemed to fit in seamlessly, like the four of them sitting around a table poking fun at each other was a regular occurrence.

Dean wasn’t sure if the tightness in his chest was joy or guilt or both. He’d known this mission was gonna screw him over no matter what ever since he’d gotten a close look at those blue eyes, but he didn’t know just how badly until that moment.

 

 

“Wow, two visits in a row. I don’t know if I should be worried or annoyed.”

Dean flipped Sam off as he flopped onto his brother’s bed. “Shut up, Sam, I’m a joy and you know it.”

“Sure, but can’t you go be a ‘joy’ in someplace other than my bed?”

“Is this your way of telling me you want to see other people?”

Sam huffed at him. “Seriously, why are you here?”

“I’m _bored._ Cas had, like, a thing or whatever and I have nothing to do.”

“You're pathetically whipped, you know that?”

“Am _not._ Shut up, Sam.” He wasn’t, anyway. Not _pathetically._ Maybe just a little bit. Enough to make him want to punch something over the injustice of it all, Cas being Cas but also being a criminal, and Dean liking him maybe more than he’d ever liked anyone, you know, _like that._

Maybe he shouldn’t talk to Sam about Cas. His brother had a history of meddling whenever he thought Dean had a crush. It had never ended well, and considering the already doomed status of his friendship with Cas, Sam needed to stay out of it.

Thankfully, Sam changed the subject then, seeming to let the Cas thing go, for now. “Hey, when was the last time you heard from Bobby?”

Dean lifted his head to rest it on his forearms. “Uh, I don’t know. Couple weeks ago? Why?”

Sam shrugged. “I sent him a letter maybe three weeks ago and I haven’t gotten one back yet.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Sam. Maybe you just pissed him off.”

Sam pursed his lips in an ultimate bitchface. “Me? No chance. You? Probably.”

“You're really not making me feel very welcome, Sammy.”

“You know, I think we should go out there for the Winter Solstice,” Sam suggested. “It’s been too long. I’m totally taller than him now.”

There was a soft knock at the door before Dean could answer and Jess poked her head in. “Dean? You’ve got a visitor.” She opened it wider to reveal Kevin, looking grave.

“Captain,” he said seriously. Kevin was the only one of Dean’s inner circle that never called him by his name. “There’s been another.”

Dean closed his eyes and stood. “Suicide?”

“Murder-suicide. This time there was a note.”

Dean sighed. “Please tell me you got a carriage?”

Kevin nodded and turned on his heel, leaving Dean to follow. Neither of them bothered with a goodbye to Sam or Jess.

“Alright,” Dean started once they were seated in the plush leather seats and moving.”

“An old woman,” Kevin started promptly, “was found dead on the outskirts of the Hale Woods by Benny and Charlie. Deeper in the woods was the body of an elderly man who’d been stabbed to death. The note was found with the woman, who signed it ‘Susan Ganem’. The crime scene has been cleaned and evacuated, the bodies are in the morgue, evidence in your office. Everything else is awaiting instruction.”

“What took you so long to find me?” Dean asked, surprised that all the awful, boring stuff was taken care of.

Kevin blushed. “I, uh. I thought you’d be on the West side.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Whatever ideas you have right now, you better drop them. Cas and I are just friends.”

“That’s not what Donna said,” Kevin said under his breath.

Dean groaned. This was just great. The exact last thing he needed was rumors of him and Cas to get to Crowley. Then he’d be in for it big time. “I swear, Kevin, whatever rumors are going around need to be shut down, like, yesterday. Got it?”

Kevin nodded, a note of fear in his eyes. _Good_. “Got it, sir.”

The carriage stopped in front of the castle gates and Dean slid out, his boots hitting the ground perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary. The gates opened without so much of a glance towards the guards at the door. Dean stalked into the main entry, Kevin on his heels, only to be intercepted by Crowley coming down the stairs from his quarters.

“Winchester! How is the country doing today?”

“Awful,” Dean responded bluntly before continuing down towards his office. Crowley followed.

“How so?”

“Two more deaths today and last week there were bear sightings in Haveteur that I haven’t heard anything about since I sent a responding letter. Everyone was probably eaten by bears,” Dean guessed, slamming open the door and stalking around to his chair, plopping down and ripping open the box of evidence. There was nothing but the clothes, the note, and drawings of the crime scene as it’d been found.

Crowley and Kevin stopped in front of his desk. Kevin shuffled his feet, glancing at Crowley every so often.

Dean huffed and looked up. “Kevin, who’s on this?”

“Well, me, you, Meg, obviously,” Kevin started. Dean glared at him. _Obviously_. “Charlie and Benny, as well.”

“Bring in Jo, tell Meg to get in here, and gather everyone else up to meet me in the conference hall in an hour,” Dean ordered, sorting through the bloodied garments. Kevin didn’t move. Dean looked up with an eyebrow raised. “Now! Shoo.”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin squeaked, all but fleeing the room.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned to Crowley. “Anything specific you needed, Your Majesty?”

“Not really, but while we’re chatting, any updates on the Castiel front?”

Dean paused in his movements, closing his eyes. The words fell out of him before he could even think about it. “He… cares about me. That much can be said, at least.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Is that guilt I hear?”

“I am still human,” Dean defended, picking up a bloody man’s tunic. That was a lot of stab wounds. “He’s— he’s my friend,” Dean said quietly.

Crowley scoffed. “Oh, bloody perfect.”

“It’s not going to be an issue.”

“It better not be! I don’t think I need to explain how great my displeasure would be in your failure to complete this task.”

“I understand,” Dean said, looking up to meet Crowley’s skeptical eyes. “Really, I do. But this is gonna take more time, you get that?”

Crowley studied his face, looking for a lie he wouldn’t find. “I know perfectly well that these things take time,” he snapped. He waved a hand at Dean’s box of evidence. “Carry on with your murder, Captain. I take it this is another with no one to convict?”

“You’d be right.”

Crowley huffed. “Whatever is going on, I don’t like it. Fix it.”

Dean didn’t respond, and Crowley left.

An hour later, Dean was sitting at a table with Meg and Jo on either side of him, accompanied by Kevin, Charlie, and Benny. “Alright,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “This is the third identical suicide, the second accompanied by murder in the last two weeks. Clearly something is up that we’re missing. I’m officially putting the six of us on any similar cases. I don’t want anyone talking about the details of what’s going on in our investigation, got it? Not even with other members of the guard. All anyone needs to know is that the deaths are linked, at the very most, at least until we’ve got it under control. Everyone on the same page?”

Five nods. Dean sighed in relief. “Alright. So, the first murder. Andy Gallagher. He was—” Dean closed his eyes and exhaled, “—fourteen. Kevin and Garth found him dead, and Ava Wilson, also fourteen, was standing over him with bloody hands. Kevin, how did she react to being apprehended?”

Kevin sighed, leaning forward onto the table. “She didn’t seem to be all there. Like she’d done something… good, almost. She seemed happy with herself, but also a bit—” Kevin shrugged, a helpless jerk of the shoulders, “—empty.”

Dean nodded. “When I interrogated Ava, she seemed to be… soulless. Like she didn’t give a shit about what she’d done or anything. But she was also a little bitter, though that might just be a teenager thing.” Dean sighed and dropped his head in his hands. “We locked her up, and she started scratching at herself so bad she ruined her nail beds and eventually bled herself out.”

Though everyone had been silent to begin with, the quiet suddenly felt heavier, weighted. Dean sucked in a breath and went on, “Sec— second victim was only a week later. Pamela Barnes. She killed herself in her own living room, which was in distress. We think she got very angry, or frustrated and went on a rampage of sorts, and then she copied Ava; she started scratching herself, her wrists. She bled out. Her injuries were nearly _identical_ to Ava’s.” Dean huffed and surveyed the grim faces of his companions, coming to rest on Meg. “Fourth victim— Meg?”

Meg nodded. “Right. Larry Ganem, stabbed six times by his wife, Susan. He was found in the Hale Woods, dead. On the outskirts of the forest we found Susan with the same injuries as Ava and Pamela, but she left a note simply reading, ‘I have failed- Susan Ganem’.”

“Meg,” Dean prompted, “What’d you find out?”

Meg sighed, closing her eyes. “She’s Celestial, or was, twenty years ago.”

Dean closed his eyes as well. “That’s the only connection between the three suicides. Celestials.”

“They were also all female,” Benny pointed out.

“Yeah, but when targets are gender-based, there’s almost always an age range, too,” Charlie countered. “These women ranged from fourteen to eighty. Besides, Celestial is more specific.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “Okay. It’s clear these deaths are all linked, that there’s more to these suicides than we think. So, I wanna know everything each victim did in the week prior to either murder or suicide. I wanna know what powers they had, or would have had. _Everything_. Charlie and Benny, you handle the Ganem deaths— contact the family, get a full autopsy report. I want all the normal procedural paperwork on my desk before sundown. Meg, tell Jody and Donna to run training today. Kevin, report to Crowley and then gather up every scrap of paperwork from the previous cases we worked on. Jo and I will go start retracing Ava’s steps. Got it?” Once everyone nodded their assent, Dean waved them all away, and four of them jumped up and scattered.

Jo raised an eyebrow at Dean. “You're bossy, boss.”

“You knew that when you joined, Jo,” Dean reminded her, spinning on his heel and heading for the door. Jo jogged after him.

“So, where do we start?”

 

 

It was another night of no sleep for Dean before he went stumbling into Cas’ in the morning. He’d spent his entire day investigating every little thing Ava had done in the week leading up to Andy’s death. He wouldn’t know if any of it was significant until the process was repeated with Pamela and Susan. They would be harder, without having had parents hovering over them every second.

Cas didn’t even look up from his book. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean huffed and bent over, placing his sword on the ground, his pin clattering down next to it. “You know, you should really take more precautions. No offense, but you don’t exactly live in the best area. I could have been a murderer or something. Apparently they’re on the rise,” Dean grumbled.

Cas looked up then, immediately frowning. “Another murder? Regular, or…”

Dean huffed. “Found a note, found a suicide, found a murder. So I guess technically there’s no _living_ on-the-rise killers you need to watch out for. Yet. Who the fuck knows?”

Cas eyed him warily. “Would it be safe to assume you haven’t slept?”

“What gave me away?”

Cas pointed at the sofa. “Sleep, at least for a couple hours.”

Dean huffed but complied, laying down face-first on the sofa. “Hey, remember when we used to pretend that I was here to help you with shit?”

Cas smiled slightly at that, not the full one he was hoping for, but still. “I’m very glad you and I became friends, Dean.”

Dean was too tired to feel properly guilty about that, thank Michael. “I mean, I’m a pretty shit friend, coming over and just sleeping.”

“A small price to pay for keeping the city safe,” Cas reasoned.

Dean snorted. Yeah, right. How many people had he saved recently? That’d be a big fat zero. It seemed more like he was just fucking everything up. “You must think I’m someone else.”

Cas shook his head, leaning in more towards Dean. “You seem to forget the tremendous amounts of good you’ve done before this… case has you stumped. For the time being. The city was quiet for the longest time in history because of you, Dean.”

Dean blinked at him, noting the now miniscule space between his lips and Cas’ lips. “I’m going to bed.”

Cas sighed heavily, but he let him go.

Cas was in the same spot when Dean woke up, though considerably farther along in his book. He blinked blearily, taking just a few moments to just watch Cas mull over the words in front of him like the book was a puzzle he was trying to solve. A soft smile came to Dean’s lips before he could do anything about it.

He’d never felt anything like what he felt for Cas. He’d only had one relationship in his entire life, and what he’d had with Lisa had been strong, sexual desire turned to drunken fights and existing in the same place but never really together. That had been so many years ago, though, at least four.

No, this was more than he’d ever known he could feel, and it had only been what— a month? He’d been with Lisa an entire year.

Dean wasn’t exactly terrified, but he wasn’t too calm, either. Forgetting their inevitable future, there were a million things about this to freak him out, like the fact that he, Dean Winchester had mushy feelings for anyone at all or how they’d only known each other so long.

Which, yeah, so not the thing to focus on, but Dean kept coming back to it. It was fair to say that he barely knew Cas, and yet his heart missed a beat every time Cas touched him, sped up rapidly when he met those blue eyes, and his chest ached just thinking about him.

Maybe Dean knew, or sensed, that if this was how he felt after only a month, then by the time Dean would have to arrest him…

Angels, but he was already so gone, despite telling Sam merely a day earlier that he was _not,_ even telling himself that over and over. It was different, though, now that he was here and Cas was within arm’s reach.

“Good morning, Dean. Though I suppose it’s closer to afternoon.”

Dean blinked in surprise. “Is it? I should get gone, then.”

Cas smirked slightly, looking up from his book. “Perhaps. May I ask you a question before you leave, however?”

“Shoot,” Dean responded easily as he pulled himself slowly to his feet.

Cas looked down, suddenly nervous. Dean frowned as he plucked his sword from the ground. “Why do you keep coming here?”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean… I don’t understand what you find so interesting about me for you to continue spending so much time here.”

Dean dropped the sword back to the ground and followed it, scooting in so he was sitting next to Cas. “I don’t understand why you haven’t told me to fuck off yet,” Dean joked. Cas glared at him and he huffed, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up. “I don’t know, Cas. I just… like being here. It’s peaceful. And I like you,” Dean admitted, face going red.

It wasn’t untrue, either. Sure, Dean would be there even if he hated Cas’ guts (how he wished he could) but maybe in some other universe, Dean was there simply because he wanted to be.

Maybe he could trade places with that other Dean.

Cas huffed, but it was a huff of laughter and his eyes were hiding a smile that his lips would not betray when he looked back up at Dean. “Thank you, Dean. The sentiment is returned.”

Dean grinned and stood once more, scooping his sword up. He ruffled Cas’ hair, making it an even bigger mess than usual, all frizzy and in his eyes. Cas frowned. “Later, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

 

 

Dean was never going to solve this Angels-forsaken case.

He may not even make it through it, if today was anything to go by.

Ava and Andy’s deaths had been hard enough. Their youth made it all the more impacting, but still they’d been teens. Babies?

Dean couldn’t handle murdered babies. He just couldn’t.

But he was the captain and he _had_ to. When he walked onto the crime scene, he did it with a blank face and clenched fists. Jo walked tentatively behind him, surveying the scene, trying her best not to look at the center of the room, to the bed.

Dean took a deep breath. The baby, a little boy, lay near the foot of the dead, and if Dean couldn’t tell by the stench, the sight of the decomposed corpse would have been enough to tell him the boy had been dead for a couple of days, at least.

But he didn’t focus on that. He couldn’t. He was good at that, at making things go away.

The father was curled on his side, bloody, raw forearms resting by his head peacefully, as if he were asleep.

Dean closed his eyes. “What do we know?”

Jo cleared her throat, eyes skirting over the bodies and back to Dean. “The mother died in childbirth three months ago.” _Three months._ The next suicide victim was going to be Dean if this bullshit kept up. “Neighbors complained about… the smell. The man, Mike Schneider, is thirty.”

“Celestial?”

Jo sighed. “Do I really need to answer that?”

Of course. Dean nodded. “You’ve got the process by now, Jo. Gather the team, the coroner should be here soon.”

“What are you going to do?”

Dean closed his eyes. “I have to talk to Crowley about this. It’s too big and there’s no denying the connection anymore. I need to know what he wants to do about it.”

“Good luck, Captain.”

“Yeah.” Dean turned on his heel and stalked out of the small cottage, back into the carriage that was still sitting in the middle of the street. “The castle, please,” he demanded without preamble.

Dean spent the entire ride staring at the window, trying hard to keep his mind blank. Everything was slowly becoming much too much too real for him to even try to handle it all at once.

Meg was standing in the entrance hall when Dean stormed in. “Is it—”

“Yes,” he answered, not even bothering to hear the rest of her question. She closed her eyes for a count of two and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Where’s Crowley?”

“In bed.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Sometimes he wondered who was really running this damn country. He took the stairs two at a time, and the guards at Crowley’s doors didn’t even look twice as he barged in, not really caring if the King was asleep or not.

He was not. In fact, every lamp was lit and Crowley was sitting in bed, reading. Dean gritted his teeth. “Sir?”

Crowley glanced at him lazily. “What is it, Captain?”

“There’s… well-”

“If there’s been another death, I don’t see why you're wasting your time telling me about it,” Crowley drawled as he turned a page in his book.

Dean huffed. “A man killed his three-month-old baby and then himself a few days later. And we have a solid connection between the suicides.”

“What’s that?” Crowley asked, still not looking up.

“They’re all Celestials. Or were.”

Crowley looked up then, eyebrows raised. “And?”

Dean blinked. “What do you mean, ‘and’?”

“If they want to go about offing themselves, I don’t see what you want me to do about it,” Crowley explained, finally putting down his book.

Dean resisted the urge to go pick it up and hit him with it. “They’re clearly not in their right minds! Something is making them go insane and they’re not just offing themselves. A baby died, Your Highness. We have to do something,” Dean pleaded. If Crowley wouldn’t do anything, he didn’t know what he could possibly do. And this had to stop. Too many innocent people had already suffered.

“What do you propose I do, hmm?” Crowley’s tone was condescending, sharp as a whip. Dean’s jaw locked. “Lock up every former Celestial and study them? Cuff them? No, Dean, this is really for the best. I wanted those Celestials dead years ago. This may even take care of Castiel so you don’t have to!”

Dean’s grip on the doorknob tightened. He’d been trying _really_ hard not to go there. The last thing he needed on his mind right now was Cas. He forced himself to focus. “And what about their victims?” Dean said through clenched teeth. “What about them?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “People get killed, Dean, it happens. Do whatever you feel is necessary, but don’t expect me to help.”

Dean chewed on his tongue for a moment before slamming the door as hard as he possibly could when he walked out. Fucking _asshole._

He stalked through the castle, anyone who crossed his path finding a reason to duck away. No one so much as made eye contact with him.

He crashed into his room, practically punching the door open. Pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair, Dean tried not to panic.

It was fine, really. It was just that everyone was dying and he didn’t know what to do about it even though that was his job. But whatever.

Dean was panicking.

He collapsed against the wall, knees drawn up under his chin, and he tried to breathe. In for five seconds, out for five seconds. Dean dropped his hands to the ground and tilted his head back, blinking up at the ceiling. How could he follow someone so cruel, so accepting of this horror? Someone who refused to bat an eye at the lives of the citizens he was losing? Dean had never liked Crowley, but he’d at least expected better than this.

The doubt that had always sat restrained in the back of his mind poked a prodding finger to the forefront of Dean’s thoughts. Could he trust anything Crowley had said? Dean thought of Cas, how in his gut he knew he was a good person, kind yet righteous. It was Crowley who had Dean believing he was a criminal who wanted to hurt people. What was the truth?

Dean had always lived by his gut, and his gut told him that his trust should be in Cas.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he was standing, pushing off the floor to go find Cas, tell him everything, figure out what to do.

But Dean paused when he reached the door. _Sam._ Crowley was the kind of person to punish Dean by punishing Sam and Jess. Even if he didn’t know that for sure, it was too great a risk.

Dean dropped his hand and took a few steps back before falling backward onto his bed, pressing his fingers into his eyes. Cowardly, for certain, but Dean didn’t claim to be brave.

He would betray Cas, even if it was wrong, to protect Sam. He had to save someone, even if he couldn’t save Cas, save any of the Celestials who were losing their minds, save the people they were slaughtering for whatever reason. Sam would be safe from all of this shit if it killed him.

That didn’t mean he was giving up on everyone else. Dean stood once more, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Even if he didn’t have any ideas, maybe his team would.

 

 

Dean dropped his head onto the table with a groan. “Kevin, for the _eighth time,_ we don’t have records! We have absolutely no way of finding every Celestial in the city, like, at all.”

“We could do a census,” Charlie suggested, tipping back in her chair. Benny was watching the back two legs with pursed lips, just waiting for her to fall.

“Yeah, but that’s not foolproof,” Jo countered. She had been standing and pacing for an hour; they’d been going around like this for at least three. “People could always lie, and we’d never get to everyone in the city in time.”

“This is just happening in Lavendel, right? Not Revelan, not Haveteur, none of the smaller towns?” Meg clarified through a yawn.

“Not that I’ve heard of,” Dean responded, lifting up his head. Dawn was breaking outside the window. They’d moved to the library to discuss this, as none of them could stand the damp, dark dungeons after the night they’d had.

Dean didn’t even know why they bothered investigating — there was only ever one thing connecting each victim. But it had taken most of the night to catalog everything they knew about these new victims.

No family besides each other. The father was a miner until his wife died and he had to come home to raise his son. And then there was the paperwork, the endless paperwork, still overwhelming despite having split it between the six of them.

“Maybe we need another opinion,” Jo volunteered. “We’re just going to keep coming back to the same things,” she pointed out as she took back her chair.

Dean sighed. “Jo, we really can’t have too many people on this.” Dean hesitated, but carried on anyway. “This isn’t exactly Crowley-approved,” he admitted, waiting for them all to start yelling at him.

“Even better,” Meg said, raising Dean’s eyebrows. “Hate that fucking tyrant. Anything that’ll piss him off.”

“Meg, you're with him, like, all the time.”

“Yeah, well, you hang around him all day, see how long before you start wanting to kill him in his sleep,” Meg grumbled, rolling her eyes.

Dean clicked his tongue, but only to keep from smiling. “I could arrest you for that, you know.”

“Yeah, but you won’t, because you do it, too.” Meg thought for a second, then rectified, “Well, we all do. And the rest of the City Guard. Royal Guard, not so much. They’re a bunch of ass-kissers.”

Dean did snort at that because, well, she wasn’t wrong. “Right. Well, he’s all for letting the Celestials die out, but that’s some bullshit so we’re not gonna do that.”

“Wait,” Charlie said, dropping her chair back to all four legs, “He said to stop the investigation?”

“No. He just said he wasn’t gonna help.” Everyone groaned simultaneously. “We don’t need his help! But we _do_ need to play this one close to the chest. Before anything, we need to know what the fuck is going on.”

“How are we gonna do that?” Benny asked.

Dean huffed. “Well, we’ve been up all night, so we’re all taking the day off. Uh, except Meg.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry Meg, but… we’ll talk later. For now, Kevin and Jo, you're gonna wake up Jody and Donna and tell them they’re in charge today. Or until five o’clock, because that’s when you're all back on the clock. Except Meg, you're… well, you're not off the clock for a while.”

“Ass.”

“Chill, I’ll explain in a minute. Charlie and Benny, you guys need to go tell Frank that he needs to examine Mike’s brain and compare it to a normal brain, see if he can find anything. Then you can all go to sleep.”

Everyone nodded and started getting up, except Dean and Meg. Once he was sure they were all out of earshot, he turned to his second-in-command.

“Meg, I need you to stay on Crowley today. And by that I mean I’m not saying you should spy on him, but…”

Meg nodded slowly. “Right. I am not going to spy on our boss. That would be idiotic.”

“You are _not_ going to follow him wherever he goes, especially if he dismisses his entire guard.”

“Obviously.”

“And, if you accidentally happen to do any of that, you're not going to report to me whatever you find.”

“I would never.” Meg leaned in, and Dean copied her until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “I take it this will be a daily exercise?”

“Maybe, depends on what you find.”

“You're not going to tell me why I’m not doing this?”

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. “No. Not right now. Eventually, though, I promise. I just… have to know.”

“If you're working for the right dude?” She raised an eyebrow, waited a beat, then, “No, you're not. But you already do know that, Dean.”

“No, yeah, I do, but I have to know if it’s worth…” Dean trailed off and met Meg’s eyes, willing her to understand without him having to say anything.

“Worth doing something about it?”

Dean sighed in relief. “Yeah. Don’t get caught, okay?”

Meg scoffed. “Please.”

 

 

Dean hadn’t slept all night and despite having to go back to the castle to meet with his investigative team in only twelve hours, he found himself at Cas’ apartment the next morning anyway. Cas was laying on his stomach in the middle of the floor, stacks of paper all about him as he furrowed his brow and chewed on the end of a quill. He hadn’t heard Dean come in.

Dean frowned. “Cas? What are you doing?”

Cas jumped so violently Dean found himself stepping back. The other man was on his feet so fast Dean wondered if he was about to attack. He raised his hands defensively. “Dean?”

“Uh… yeah, Cas it’s just me. What’s all this?”

Cas blushed furiously and his mouth fell open. Dean looked down at one of the papers, trying to make out the words on it when Cas kicked it backwards. He used his feet to shuffle the papers into a sloppy pile as he stammered, “Well, this is, um, well, it’s nothing of import, kind of a mess, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would be coming today, and this is just, uh, just paper and stuff, not important.” Cas lifted the stack off the ground and cradled it to his chest, making sure that the only thing Dean could see was the blank backside of a piece of parchment and the quill that Cas was twirling between his fingers, trying to be casual.

“You're an awful liar.” Dean took a step forward. Cas took one back. Dean glared at his friend, watching as he shoved the papers under the sofa where Dean still couldn’t make out the words or accompanying illustrations. “Why didn’t you think I was coming?”

Cas finally met Dean’s eyes, now that the papers were out of the way. Dean supposed they had to be his plans for stealing his next artifact. Dean still didn’t know how he was getting in the castle. Maybe if he could sneak a look at those papers he would find out, though he doubted their permanent hiding place was under the sofa. He’d never seen them before, after all.

Oh, darn. Maybe it would just take him too long to violate Cas’ privacy and find the papers. What a shame.

“I heard there was another murder,” Cas said softly. Dean closed his eyes. “Is it connected to the others?”

Dean’s eyes flew open. Cas was Celestial. He was in danger, such danger, but maybe… maybe he could help. Crowley _had_ told him to do whatever he thought he needed to do.

“Cas… I have to tell you something.” Cas frowned. “Remember when I told you that I had some idea about the suicide victims, how they might be connected?”

“I take it it wasn’t a coincidence, then?”

Dean sighed. “Sit down, Cas.” Cas sat and Dean immediately began pacing. “It’s so fucked up, Cas, you don’t even know. What’d you heard about the murder last night?”

“Just that something happened.” Cas stood and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, halting his pacing. “Dean, are you alright?”

Dean looked into Cas’ eyes, so warm and concerned, and Dean knew that they were supposed to be playing this close to the chest, but there was something about that deep blue gaze that made him want to spill everything. “Not even a little bit.”

Cas squeezed Dean’s arm reassuringly and before Dean even had a second to process, Cas was hugging him and he was hugging Cas back. He smelled like ink and rain. Calming. Dean hugged him just a bit tighter and blew out a breath.

“It’s… last night, it was a baby.” Cas stiffened in his arms. “Three months old, killed by his own father. And the— he, he was just left there in the house for two days before his father killed himself and we found the bodies.”

Cas said nothing for a moment and Dean was suddenly aware that this hug had gone past typical hug length, even amid this sort of trauma. “I don’t understand why this keeps happening,” Cas finally said, “People killing their loved ones.”

Dean sighed and drew away, though Cas stayed close. “Me either. I’m trying to figure it out, but the connection between the suicide victims, the killers...” Dean forced himself to look directly into Cas’ eyes. “Cas, they were all Celestial. That’s the connection. There’s no way it was a coincidence.”

Cas took a step back, eyes wide, and it felt a bit like a punch to the gut. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t _know_ , Cas! All I know is that seven people are dead, three of them very violently murdered, and the other four committed suicide in the exact same way! None of them knew each other at all, and the only similarity between them was that all of them were Celestial. And then they went insane and killed people.”

Cas rubbed his temples, staring at the ground. “You don’t know that they went insane.”

“Oh, no, Cas, I do. I talked to the first girl, Ava, before she killed herself. She wasn’t there, at all. She didn’t care that she’d killed one of her best friends and she didn’t care that she was getting in trouble or about what she was doing to her parents. She scratched at her own wrists until she _bled out!_ But before that she spent every night screaming her head off about nothing. She went mad, Cas. Trust me.”

Cas seemed to deflate as he dropped his arms and sighed heavily, looking up at Dean. “I do trust you.” Dean restrained a wince. “I just do not understand.”

Dean sat down on the sofa, propping his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, me either. And I don’t know what to do, Cas. I’ve got nothing to go on. I don’t know who’s next— I don’t even know if there’s going to be a next. Crowley basically just told me to drop it and let it happen, and I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Cas sat cross-legged in front of Dean, folding his hands in his lap. “I trust you’ve consulted others? No one had any good ideas?”

Dean groaned. “We went around for _hours_ and couldn’t think of anything. The only thing that’s happening right now is the coroner’s examining brains for obvious differences, but I doubt that’s gonna make much of a difference.”

“Where is he getting an unaffected brain to compare to?”

“People die of, like, natural causes all the time. It’s not my job to deal with it, but it happens.”

“Speaking of, at what point would the King have to involve himself? People are going to notice that something is wrong eventually,” Cas mused.

“Right, yeah,” Dean scoffed, “He’ll involve himself by making some fl

owery bullshit speech about how everything is fine and how really, this is all for the better.” Dean stood from the sofa and resumed pacing behind it. “That’s what he fucking said to me, do you know? He told me to just let half the fucking population die because he’s such a self-righteous dick that he can’t handle anyone being potentially more powerful than him and if there’s collateral damage, hey, people just die and it’s whatever, who the fuck cares?” Dean stopped and looked at Cas, whose face betrayed some strange mixture of horror, confusion, amusement, and concern. He sighed. “It’s not Crowley’s job anyway, it’s mine. And I’m not doing it very well.”

Cas stood, coming around the couch to stand in front of Dean once more. “It’s a nearly impossible task, Dean.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m just… missing something. I _have_ to be missing something.”

“Dean,” Cas said, placing his injured hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s thoughts drifted back to that first day, when he’d broken it. It had nearly been two months, he realized with a jolt. In a few weeks, it would be healed. “You just need to take a step back, as they say, and return to it. Sleep. The case will be here when you awake.”

Dean shook his head, taking a step away and pacing again. “No. No, I just— let’s talk it out, you and me. Fresh opinion.” Cas sighed but didn’t refuse, so Dean went on. “Okay, so, seven people are dead. Four of them killed themselves, and three of those four murdered one person each before committing suicide.”

Cas nodded. “They went insane. Perhaps…” Cas paused, thinking for a moment with his head tilted to the side. “They got frustrated or angry and needed to take out aggression.”

Dean rubbed at his jaw, feeling the sharp stubble underneath his hand. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense, because Ava seemed calm after she killed Andy, but then she got crazier and crazier as time went on. And Mike just hung around his house for two days after he killed his son.” Dean dropped his hand. “Susan killed herself, like, half an hour after she murdered her husband, though. Even had time to write a note, and she was the most violent.”

“She was elderly. Maybe the violence tired her, made her weaker.”

Dean blew out a breath. Cas’ voice was soothing, forcing Dean to both focus and calm down. “Alright. So we know all the killers were Celestial.”

“Who would target Celestials?”

Dean met Cas’ eyes, and he knew exactly what he was saying, who he was implying. “I’m… looking into that.” Which was partially true. Honestly, Dean didn’t even know what he was hoping to find out with Meg’s spy mission, but it helped ease the tension in his gut. “But, um. That’s gonna be tricky, for about a bajillion different reasons.”

“How do you peacefully dethrone a King?” Cas mused.

“It would help if said King had an heir, but there’s basically no way to go about it without an uprising, and it’s kind of in my job description to make sure those don’t happen.”

“Yes. Besides, I highly doubt if the King was behind this you would be allowed to work the case at all. Actually, I doubt you would have ever found the bodies.”

“Yeah, you're probably right. Who, then?”

Cas leaned back, planting his hands behind his hips to support his weight. “There are many people in this city who would relish seeing Celestials burn themselves out. Since Crowley’s reign, it’s become a popular opinion. The only question is: who has the means?”

“I guess that’s where I’ll start, then,” Dean said, “Dig deeper and see if there were any common people in their life. Doctors, shrinks—”

“Anyone who would have access to the information about their lineage,” Cas added. “Out of curiosity, is there anything in the castle, perhaps, about who is and is not Celestial?”

Dean shook his head. “No complete lists, no. Just lists of people who are dead— killed, by soldiers.”

Cas frowned and then stood. Dean copied him. “I wish you luck on this, Dean.”

“Thanks, Cas. I’m gonna go back to the castle and sleep for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow— is tomorrow night okay?”

“Of course. Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean strode towards the door, but the second he stepped out, he felt Cas’ hand on his arm, stalling him. He looked back.

“Be careful.”

Dean smiled, just a little. “I will.”

 

 

“Any updates on the case?” Cas asked almost as soon as Dean was through the door. The apartment felt different during the night, somehow. The curtains were open to reveal the starry sky overhead and the candles were lit. Dean liked it, the dark yet cozy feel of it. The castle at night just seemed to be cold.

“What, since yesterday? Nope. But we’re working on it. Although I’m sure there’ll be another body in a few days.” Dean leaned against the windowsill. Warm summer wind flitted across his face, making him just a bit sleepy.

“Why do you say that?” Cas asked, handing him a glass of wine. Dean frowned. He didn’t really drink wine.

“Because of the pattern. There’s only a few days between each death,” Dean explained. Cas raised his eyebrows as Dean clenched his fist around the stem of the glass but said nothing.

“Are you implying that these people are going insane one by one? Seems a rather inefficient way to kill people.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe whoever’s behind it likes to watch them lose their minds.” Cas shook his head, disgusted. Dean took a sip of his wine and immediately pulled a face. “Do you have anything stronger than this?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid you're just going to have to suffer through it, tonight."

“Isn’t there a bar downstairs?”

Cas looked down to hide a blush, but Dean caught it anyway. “I don’t like interacting with other people more than I have to.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, me neither, really. Hey, you wanna play Truth or Truth?”

Cas tilted his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows. “What is that?”

“I ask you a question, you ask me a question, and the only rule is that you have to answer truthfully.”

Cas hesitated for only a second before nodding. “I suppose.”

“Awesome.” Dean sat down on the ground, gesturing for Cas to do the same. “I’ll go first. Why don’t you get a job?”

“I had a job.”

“A new job.”

Cas sighed heavily. “I suppose I just don’t have enough time to work.”

“What the fuck do you do all day?”

“That was two questions. I believe it’s my turn.” Dean glared but let it go. “Are you a virgin?”

Dean choked on his wine, pitching forward to prevent it from spewing out of his mouth. Cas simply raised his eyebrows, watching Dean cough and choke.

 _“Angels,_ I guess it’s just straight to it, then?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Usually the heavy stuff comes later.”

“Answer the question, Dean.”

“Uh, no. Definitely not a virgin. What about you?” Dean asked, sensing he already knew the answer. Just in case, though, he kept his wine glass away from his lips.

“I am not a virgin.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and leaned back, just a little. He should _not_ be feeling hurt by that. He wasn’t a virgin either, after all, and Cas’ experiences had probably occurred long before he met Dean. Not that it mattered either way. “Gotta admit, I was expecting a different answer.”

Cas smirked slightly and drained the rest of his wine glass. “I’m not sure whether or not I should be offended.”

“I mean, you're kind of antisocial.”

“Mm. Should I bother asking you for details of your sexual history, or would that take too long?”

“I’m not a whore, Cas, wow.”

“Am I wrong?”

Dean glared at him, and Cas’ smile grew, though there were still no teeth. “It’s your turn, asshole.”

“Have you ever had an _actual_ relationship?”

“You're mean when you're drunk.”

“I am hardly drunk.”

“Well, I have, actually, Castiel. I dated a woman named Lisa for about a year.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m gonna smash this glass over your head. What about you, then, what’s your dating history?”

Cas’ smile dropped. “I’ve only ever slept with two people. I was seventeen when I met April, and she and I were involved for about a month. I was with Balthazar for a year and a half.”

“Got me beat, then.” Dean decided to chalk up the way his stomach was twisting to the glass and a half of wine he’d had and _not_ the fact that he’d just learned that Cas was attracted to dudes. That meant absolutely nothing to Dean at all whatsoever.

“I suppose, depending on how you look at it. Why did you break up with Lisa?”

Dean shrugged. “It just wasn’t right, I guess. Back atcha.”

“April and I were seventeen and Balthazar was a cheater.” Dean winced in sympathy. “What’s your favorite color?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“I don’t like this topic, so I’m changing the subject.”

Dean snorted and set his glass down, resting his elbows on his knees. “Fair enough. Uh, my favorite color is blue. What’s _your_ favorite color?”

“You can’t just keep recycling my questions. And it’s green. When is your birthday?”

Dean sighed. He hated when people asked him that. _Hated_ it. The answer always earned him too much sympathy, and it had never been an issue for Dean until other people had made it a big deal. “No idea. I just remember it being sometime during winter, so I just kind of… become a year older at the Spring Equinox.”

Cas frowned. “Surely there must be some way of finding out.”

Dean shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, it’s not a big deal. My turn.”

“You can’t ask me when my birthday is.”

“I wasn’t _gonna._ Do you have any siblings?”

“No. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“People? Just one.”

“Who?”

“Ah, ah, ah! That’s two questions. And don’t worry, I’m not gonna ask if you’ve ever killed anyone, because I don’t wanna know.”

“Obviously if I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Smart move. Okay, what about the scar on your neck? What’s that from?” Dean could guess, actually, but he enjoyed Cas telling him things he’d already known. It felt like a win— for their friendship or for the mission, he didn’t bother trying to tell.

Cas looked down and swirled his wine in his glass. “I suppose it’s only fair that I tell you the whole story.” He looked at Dean, eyes steady but angry, like the sea on a cloudy day when you couldn’t quite tell if there would be a storm or not. “You know that when my mother was alive, when I had… magic, we were healers. For four years after my father was killed, when the law was enacted—” Cas didn’t need to specify which law; there was only one that could have killed his father, “—my mother practiced magic anyway. She taught me how to heal. She would cut her own wrists so I could learn. When I was five, she and I were here in the slums. It was the one place the Guard rarely came. A sanctuary. But I’ve always suspected the King had some way to track magic use, because the soldiers found us anyway. I sincerely doubt anyone would have reported us— what if they got hurt, or sick? But... there was a little girl. I think her name was Anna, and my mother worried that she had the plague.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “But the plague would have been over for, what, six years by then?”

Cas nodded, downing the last of the wine. “I don’t know if it was or wasn’t the plague, but she was sick. The soldiers came before my mother was able to heal her.” Cas looked Dean over critically before snapping his eyes up to the ceiling. “Had you been Captain then, perhaps she would still be alive. But these soldiers were cruel and they gave her no option when they beheaded her where she knelt.” Dean winced, but Cas took no notice and kept going. “They looked at me— the family resemblance between us was obvious. I confirmed their suspicions by healing Anna myself, right in front of them.”

Dean couldn’t help a laugh. “Bold move.”

The corner of Cas’ mouth twitched. “Yes. I think one of the soldiers made to kill me, too, but a different one dissuaded him. I was only a child, he said, and it was easier to just cut out my power. So they did.” Cas ran a finger along the scar, tracing fr

om the bolt of his jaw to his collarbone. Dean clenched his fist in his lap to prevent himself from doing the same. “They left, but the man who saved my life came back, saying his wife needed help in the kitchens. I worked there until over half a year ago.”

Dean blew out a breath, unclenching his fist. “Damn. Why’d you leave?”

Cas smirked. “Two questions.” Dean already knew, anyway, so it didn’t really matter. “Dean, where is home to you? You were born in Lawrence, but raised in Revelan, and now you're here. Do you consider anywhere your home?”

Dean blinked, surprised. He’d never actually considered that before, the fact that he didn’t really have a home. He was from Lawrence, but he barely remembered it, and he’d grown up in the city by the sea, yet he’d never felt he belonged there, always having to keep secrets. Lavendel was the same. The one constant…

“Sam,” Dean answered confidently. “Wherever my brother is, that’s home.”

“You love your brother very much.” Not a question, just an observation.

“He’s all I have,” Dean responded with a shrug. It was true. “But now Sam has Jess. Doesn’t— he doesn’t need me anymore.”

“The city needs you. The whole country does.”

“Not really. Anyone else could be Captain.”

“Not like you.”

Dean looked up and found himself entrapped in Cas’ gaze, soft yet firm, unyielding. Dean coughed, breaking the spell after who knew how long they spent like that.

“Alright, so you don’t like social interaction, yet you tolerate my ass over here every day. What’s that about?”

Cas looked down at his empty glass, tapping his thumbs against the rim as he chewed on his lip. “I suppose I get… lonely.”

Dean’s lips parted against his will, though he had nothing to say to that. “Oh.”

Cas glanced up at him and then back down. “And you're not someone I simply tolerate. I enjoy your presence.” He looked up again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Even if you did break my wrist.”

“Never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not at least while it’s still broken.”

Dean stuck his tongue out at him. “For what it’s worth, I kinda prefer being here to being… anywhere else.” The truth, for once. Dean was sure the only thing getting him through everything right now was being able to spend even just a few hours with Cas.

Cas almost smiled at that, too.

Dean was getting closer.

 

 

Dean stared down at the body on the table, covering the lower half of his face with his hand. It absolutely _reeked_ in the morgue, which was to be expected, but still. Light some candles or something.

“Are we sure this is part of the case?” Jo asked skeptically. She seemed unbothered by the smell, which did nothing but irk Dean.

“Timing’s right, MO’s the same.”

Jo shook her head. “I don’t understand that. They always use knives. Why?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s the most common murder weapon, Jo, I don’t know.”

“But the weird thing is, we haven’t found a single knife. On anyone at any of the crime scenes. It’s like they just vanish or something.”

Dean frowned and thought back. Had they ever found murder weapons? How could he have missed that? “Frank?” he called.

Frank shuffled into the room, yawning. Dean didn’t know when the guy slept, between working in the med bay and as a coroner. They really needed to hire some new people. “Whaddya want?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I need you to compare these stab wounds to the stab wounds of the other victims and see if you can get me a weapon description.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “These bodies are stinking up my morgue.”

“Really? Dead bodies? Stinking up your _morgue_?”

“Stick it, Winchester.”

“Just do it, Frank.”

Frank just huffed and waved the two of them out. For the best, too, as they were late for training. Jo leaned over to Dean as they walked towards the stairs. “It doesn’t make any sense. We usually _always_ know who the killer is right away.”

Dean nodded. “This is kind of refreshing, actually.”

“That’s disturbing, that murder refreshes you.”

“Shut up, you know what I meant.”

By the time Dean and Jo were getting ready to go out on night patrol, Frank had sent Kevin to fetch him with the info that he had a ‘couple bits of news’.

“First,” Frank said, offering the pair seats, “I looked at the brains. There’s nothing to see there.” Dean slumped in his seat. He was so hoping to be able to be able to pin this on some kind of disease, something that could be cured. “And this murder weapon? Not a knife.”

Dean frowned and traded a glance with Jo. “But they were stabbed.”

Frank shook his head at the ceiling, muttering something under his breath. “I could stab you with a fork right now, doesn’t make it a knife. No, this was more of a dagger. Three sides to the blade, like a triangle.”

“A three-sided blade?”

“Weren’t…” Jo bit her lip, shook her head. “Thanks, Frank.”

Dean frowned as Jo tugged him to his feet, staying silent all the way out of the castle. Once they hit the quiet streets of Lavendel, Jo turned to him. “Weren’t Angel blades three-sided?”

Dean paused. “It would make sense, right?”

“Uh, no. Celestials don’t have powers anymore, and even when they did they couldn’t summon Angel blades.”

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Well… what, then?”

“Maybe someone gives them the blade? And then takes it after the deed is done?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean paused and sighed once more. “That’s not the important thing right now, we have to find whoever did this and bring them in, _alive_. We need answers.”

“Right. How are we gonna do that?”

“Identify the victim, retrace her steps and encounters.”

“And if it was random?”

Dean met her gaze, trying his best to be steely and intimidating but probably just coming off as tired. “Doesn’t matter. We’re gonna find whoever did this. This can’t go on.”

Jo said nothing, just continued walking. She was probably just as sick and tired of this impossible case.

 

 

“Dean,” Cas said, tugging on a slip of parchment in his pocket, not hard enough to pull it out, “what’s this?”

Dean blinked, taking a second to look down at the parchment. It had been yet another night of no sleep for him, between patrol and then immediately working on identifying the newest victim.

Sarah Blake. She was a young artist from Haveteur, come to the capital to be able to sell her talents. They’d been digging into her life and hobbies, and Dean had written a million letters to her parents, none of them sounding quite right. He eventually settled on sending the very first one he’d written, which, yeah, figures.

Not to mention the paperwork.

“Oh,” he said, pulling out the paper. “Letter from Bobby. Just the usual stuff, how are you, get your ungrateful ass down here for a visit, the guards here are abysmal and you should fire them, be safe.”

Cas furrowed his brow, looking somewhere between a laugh and a frown. “I see. How are you today, Dean? You seem tired.”

Dean snorted, placing the letter back in his pocket. It was in fact more weighted than ‘just the usual stuff,’ but Cas didn’t need to know about that. “I always seem tired to you.”

“Maybe if you slept we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Not my fault that people keep dying, Cas.”

Cas frowned. “Another?”

Dean sighed. “Yep. No killer, though. Yet. Just a murdered girl.”

“How do you know it’s connected, then?”

“Same wounds as the other victims. Well, the same weapon was used, anyway. We gotta catch this guy alive, though. The last time we got to talk to one of the murderers, we had no idea that this would be a trend.”

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘trend’.”

“You know what I mean. Meg’s drafting a list of questions we have to ask, if we catch them alive. If we catch them at all,” Dean added, rubbing at his eyes. He and Cas had decided to enjoy the warm weather while it lasted and were sitting on top of Cas’ apartment building, leaning against the chimney in the center. Cas didn’t have access to the chimney at his place, but it went through a couple apartments down to the bar. That was something Dean relished about living in the castle; even though he was in the dungeons with the rest of the Guard and the prisoners, it was always toasty.

“This case is taking a toll on you,” Cas observed. Dean made a point of looking straight ahead, away from him.

“They all do,” he admitted. “But this one… I feel useless, Cas. I don’t even understand what’s happening.” He sighed, finally turning his head to look his friend in the eye. Cas was looking at him with almost-pity, and Dean looked away again. “I’m in way over my head.”

“Perhaps,” Cas said, leaning back against the brick wall heavily, “But you're making what sense of this you can.”

“Not enough. I mean, what if— what if it’s you next, Cas? What if you're the next body in the morgue? I— I can’t—” Dean took a shuddering breath, looking to Cas once more. “If anything happened to you because I didn’t think of the right answer, if I couldn’t figure it out—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted softly, silencing Dean with a hand on his wrist, “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“You can’t know that.”

Cas sighed. “I can, actually. I’m very aware of what might happen to me. As are you, and you see me every day. If something was amiss, you would know, and you would know what to do.”

Dean gripped his hand tightly. It was the broken one, he realized; they’d taken the sling off a week ago, and now there were just bandages half way up his palm. “What if I’m too late?” A near-whisper.

Cas didn’t have anything to say to that, just a returning squeeze of the hand. If he did say anything, it was lost on the summer wind.

 

 

“Meg,” Dean yawned as he plopped into his usual spot at the head of the table. There had been another murder victim. Charlie, Benny, and Kevin had all the information on him and would be coming to the library shortly. “Updates?”

“Nope. Conniving bastard hasn’t done anything fishy. Yet,” Meg reported, looking unfairly awake. Well, actually, she looked exhausted, but she looked more awake than Dean, who didn’t really remember the last time he’d slept. It must’ve been… the night before Sarah was murdered. Three days ago. _Yikes_.

“I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news, actually.”

“Dude, me either.”

“Alright,” Charlie said, sweeping into the room with a big box of paper, Benny and Kevin trailing behind. “So, a man named Joseph Welch has been murdered, same deal as Sarah Blake.”

Jo came into their little alcove from the opposite side of Charlie. “Guys, is anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You're gonna have to tell us what you're thinking in order for us to answer that,” Kevin pointed out, taking a seat across from Meg.

Jo glared at him. “I’m thinking this is a copycat.”

Meg groaned. “How? We haven’t told anyone anything outside of this circle!”

Dean decided not to mention that he’d told Cas, well, everything. Cas may be a thief, but he wasn’t capable of this.

“Yeah, and Sarah was killed by the same weapon as the other murder victims before we’d even pieced that together,” Benny drawled.

Jo huffed. “It’s a possibility, though. Two people have been murdered and there hasn’t been suicides yet.”

“That’s a good thing, Jo,” Dean said as Charlie handed him a stack of paper needing his signature. Great. He looked back up. “Doesn’t mean there won’t be one soon, though. We need to find the killer before that happens.”

“We know, Dean,” Charlie assured him. “Besides, this just helps our theory. These people, they go crazy, and the killing calms them, takes out aggression or something until they eventually kill themselves.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, so two victims narrows things down. Benny and Jo, you guys go deal with the family and see where he’d been these past few days, Kevin and Charlie, same for Sarah. Compare notes on any common people they had. I’ll get to signing these damn papers, and Meg…” Dean glanced at his second. She rolled her eyes but nodded. “I know. It’s been a tough few weeks. Everyone’s off night patrol tonight. We’re all gonna crash until training tomorrow, capisce?”

Charlie whooped excitedly, but Benny smirked at him. “Not you, Captain. You’ll be crashing until you have to go visit your boy-toy.”

Dean held his gaze for a count of two before dropping his quill and addressing the table. “That’s not what any of you think it is. Even if it was, it’s none of your business.”

Benny held up his hands, surrendering. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

“I’m serious.”

Benny’s smirk just grew. “I know, Cap. I was there, remember?”

“I thought we agreed that you _weren’t_ there.” Benny was straying into dangerous territory, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Just fishy is all, Dean.”

Dean glared at him once more before picking up his quill again. “Begone, all of you.”

Everyone obeyed, except, of course, Meg. “Is there something I need to know?”

“No.”

“I’m your second.”

Dean sighed. “Meg, we’ve had this conversation before.”

“Something Crowley asked you to do, right? Well, if you want me to know what he’s up to…”

“Go, Meg. I’ll tell you if I think it’s relevant to your investigation.”

Meg still did not leave. “Dean, if I do find something I shouldn’t, what exactly are you going to do?”

Dean closed his eyes. If Meg got dirt on Crowley… well, Cas did have the artifacts. Overthrowing him would be… easy, actually. Enough of the Guard would follow him over Crowley, and if Cas was already stealing powerful objects from the King, he had to already be planning a revolution. For his part, Dean couldn’t justify one. Not yet. He had to know Crowley was dirty before he risked everything.

 _You could just ask Cas,_ his traitorous brain told him. Didn’t he trust Cas?

_Not enough. Not enough to put Sam in danger._

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it,” Dean finally said. Meg stared at him for a second before shaking her head and leaving. Dean watched her go before he pulled the letter from Bobby out of his pocket.

He’d lied to Cas. Truthfully, all he did was lie to Cas, but this was something he hadn’t needed to lie about, not necessarily.

The letter was about Lawrence. From the moment Dean had explained to Bobby what had happened to them, he’d warned them to keep their traps shut about it. He was a paranoid man and didn’t think the fire could have possibly been natural. Someone had it out for someone in Lawrence, and Sam and Dean weren’t supposed to survive. For all they knew, they could’ve been the ones being targeted.

Erring on the side of caution, they created their story and Bobby had been looking into it ever since Sam and Dean moved away. Now, he’d found something.

They weren’t the only ones that survived the fire.

 

 

Dean strolled into the Roadhouse, trying his best to be casual, but his very bones were thrumming with anticipation. Sam didn’t even know they were from Lawrence. As far as he was concerned, their mother Mary _was_ Bobby’s sister. Yet he’d managed to hire Eileen Leahy, the only other survivor. It really was a small world.

Bobby had said she was Sam’s age, but she and her mother both had escaped. Dean was banking on the fact that Eileen’s mother had managed to tell her something of value before she’d died.

Jess smiled brightly at him from behind the counter. “Dean! I’m glad you're here!”

Dean frowned. “That’s… new.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m always happy to see you!” she said, coming around the bar to hug him tightly. Dean hugged her back a bit warily.

“I know, but you're never so direct about it.”

Jess pulled away, still smiling. “We need to go upstairs and talk. Where’s— Sam! Sam, your brother’s here!”

Sam looked up from the table he was serving, the only occupied one in the room. He, too, smiled as if Dean had just returned from the dead. “Dean! You're here! Awesome, I was just about to leave to come find you.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Okay, I’m missing something.”

Sam put down the last plate and practically barrelled over to his wife and brother, slamming into Dean as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders excitedly. “Ugh, you reek,” he said as he pulled back, still with that grin on his face. “Did you just come from training?”

“Uh, yeah, what—?”

“C’mon, let’s go upstairs.”

“What about—”

Sam was already headed for the door, but he popped his head in the kitchen and made some weird hand gestures before continuing up, Dean and Jess following. “Eileen,” Sam explained. “She’s deaf.”

Dean’s face fell. How was he supposed to talk to her now?

“She can read lips and talk,” Jess continued, “but she prefers sign language, so we started learning it. We’ve got the alphabet down, at least, and a few words.”

Dean nodded, grateful for the information that she could read lips. “That’s nice of you.”

Sam ushered Dean onto a chair in their makeshift living room. It was a bit cramped with the big couch and two armchairs, but cozy. Sam and Jess sat next to each other on the couch, hands clasped together and still grinning like idiots.

“Okay,” Jess said excitedly. “Dean, you're not gonna believe this.”

Sam was nearly bouncing with excitement as he blurted, “Jess is pregnant!”

Dean blinked as the words soaked in. Then, a grin seeped into his features. “You're having a baby?”

Jess nodded. Dean laughed a little. He stood to hug his brother again, and then Jess, and he laughed. “Are you serious?”

There were tears in Jess’ eyes as she nodded again, gripping Dean’s arm tightly. “We just found out.”

“Angels,” Dean breathed, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “You guys are gonna be _awesome_ parents.”

They beamed, and Dean forgot all about talking to Eileen as he sat with his brother and Jess, talking about how they would have to convert the guest room into a nursery and discussed names. Dean really couldn’t have been happier for them if he tried.

The thought did cross his mind that it was a bit of an inconvenient time to be having a baby, what with all the death and the threat of revolt on the horizon. But maybe this was what everyone needed. A ray of light.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Dean remembered his original purpose, and Sam and Jess went to relieve Eileen of her waitressing duties. Dean popped into the kitchen as they rushed to wait tables.

“Hi,” he said, waving to catch the woman’s attention. “I’m Dean.”

Eileen nodded. “Sam’s brother.” Her voice was strange, like she had a swollen tongue. Dean supposed that would happen if you’d never heard yourself talk. It was astounding that she was even close with her pronunciations, considering.

“Yeah, Sam’s brother. Uh, but that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about something.” Eileen cocked her head curiously. “I, um, I don’t know if you knew, but I’m also Captain of the Guard, and—” Eileen’s eyes widened. “You're not in trouble or anything, but… can you just meet me at the castle, as soon as you have a day off? I don’t want Sam to hear.”

Eileen narrowed her eyes but nodded. “My next day off is in a week, yesterday was my last one. What is this about?”

Dean chewed on his lip, considering. “Lawrence,” was all he said. “Don’t— don’t freak out,” Dean said quickly, “I’ll explain everything next week, I swear. I’ll be waiting by the gate.”

Eileen nodded again before returning to the food. Dean left the room, loosing a breath. “Bye!” he called to Sam and Jess. They waved him out cheerily. The Roadhouse wouldn’t close until after sundown, so Dean made his way back to the castle. Maybe someone there would have some news.

He had just sat down behind his desk in his office when Charlie, Benny, Kevin, and Jo barrelled in, all tripping over each other and landing in a heap on the ground. Dean just watched, eyebrows raised, as they struggled to get up, bickering and kicking each other.

Eventually they got themselves into a line in front of Dean’s desk, faces ruddy and chests heaving. “What, did you sprint here?”

“Yes,” they answered as one. Dean’s eyebrows climbed higher.

“Dean,” Charlie said, stepping forward. “We— we know who it is.”

Dean stood so fast he knocked his chair over. “You know who the killer is?”

“Sarah and Joseph worked in the same place,” Kevin said breathlessly. “A private law firm. There’s only one Celestial on staff, and the receptionist said he hadn’t been to work in a few days, not since Joseph died.”

Dean rounded the desk and left the room at a speed walk, the other soldiers following. “You know where we’re going?” he asked to none of them in particular.

“The carriage is waiting,” Benny answered.

“What are we expecting?”

“Cole Trenton,” Jo said, jogging a bit to keep up, “is a lawyer, but he’s very practiced in martial arts. His father was part of the Guard.”

“We have to get him alive, got it?” Dean reminded as they stepped out onto the castle lawn. He spotted the carriage and started sprinting, his team on his tail. They all piled in and were off the moment the door closed. Dean gripped the sword handle at his side, checking with his free hand to make sure he had cuffs clipped to his trousers. With any luck, the sword would be unnecessary, but luck was fickle, untrustworthy.

The carriage skidded to a stop in front of a large manor near the woods. Dean stepped out cautiously and the five of them approached the double doors. They would have to split up in order to properly search the house. Dean tried the doors. Locked. He pulled his lockpick out of his boot and went down on one knee in front of the door. He could kick it in, but they needed to be subtle.

“Okay,” Dean said as he inserted the pick into the lock. “Benny, I want you to search the cellar. Jo and Kevin, first floor. Charlie, you're on second. I’m gonna check out the attic. Clear?”

“Clear,” they all responded as the door swung open. Dean stood slowly, drawing his sword as silently as possible. The others did the same. Dean nodded Benny towards the cellar door as Jo and Kevin spread out, towards the kitchen and hallway. Dean and Charlie ascended the stairs. Charlie’s face was set, but she ke

pt adjusting her grip on her sword; Dean had been in enough battles with her to know that meant she was scared. They’d joined the Guard at the same time, had been partners up until Dean became Captain and he’d paired her with Benny. They were a good team, too, but Dean missed her during slow nights. Jo sometimes got crabby while Charlie had always kept the mood light.

“Dean,” Charlie whispered, opening a door to another, narrower set of stairs. The attic. They exchanged nods and she moved on while Dean went up.

Light filtered through a large window, dust swirling through the beams. The wood up here was pale and rotting, like one swift kick could sent the ceiling crashing down. Dean tried to keep his footsteps silent, but the floor was creaky. He couldn’t hear if anything was going on in the rest of the house. It was possible he wasn’t here-

Dean slammed into the ground. He had been tackled, his sword knocked from his hand. He had to act fast. He flipped onto his back and raised his arms, just in time to intercept the blade headed for his heart.

It wasn’t like any blade Dean had ever seen. Three-sided, just as Frank had said, and silver. It was as long as the tips of Dean’s fingers to his elbow, and sharp, not just at the tip, but each corner looked like it would do a nice job of shaving off Dean’s skin. Deadly, concise. Angels.

A culprit they hadn’t yet considered.

Dean flipped himself over so that he was on top of Cole, who immediately lunged forward, cracking his skull against Dean’s. Dean staggered back, reaching for his sword, once again blocking the Angel blade. Cole snarled and dropped it, reaching behind him for a different sword. It was the standard sword issued to members of the Guard; it must have been his father’s.

The clashing of blades was enough to bring Charlie up to the attic, but the moment she put weight on the creaky floor, it cracked under her foot and she backed up. It was barely able to hold Dean and Cole. While the outside and first two floors had looked fine, the attic was unstable, and one wrong move could send the entire house crashing down.

Dean was hurt. He’s already been slashed across the face and stomach. He’d gotten a few blows in himself, but he could tell the wound on his stomach was worse than it felt. He attacked harder, slashing and parrying, stepping forward, pushing Cole until he had nowhere to go but against the wall.

He swung at Dean’s head, but he ducked and turned, kicking at Cole’s stomach with all the power he had.

Cole doubled over and Dean quickly bashed him over the head with the hilt of his sword, knocking him to the ground. Dean whipped out the handcuffs and secured them around Cole’s wrists while Charlie tossed him another pair that went around his feet. Dean kicked Cole’s sword away towards the window. He looked up to find all four of his friends standing on the stairs, craning their necks for a glimpse of what was happening.

Dean hauled Cole to his feet. He still struggled, but stopped when Dean held his sword to his throat.

Dean looked around at the discarded steel blade and noticed that the silver three-sided one was missing. Or maybe just lost in the dark of the attic. He’d have to check later.

His soldiers started filing down the stairs, Dean bringing up the rear.

“Alright,” he said once they were all outside and marching back to the carriage. “Benny, Jo, I need you guys to take care of the boring shit.”

“Aw, really?” Jo whined.

“Yes. That means notifying whoever needs to be notified, taking care of what to do with the property, drafting crap for me to sign.” Dean shoved Cole into the carriage and slid in next to him, still holding the sword at his throat. “Charlie, find Meg and get that sheet of questions from her. Kevin, you're gonna need to take notes during the interrogation.” Benny had to sit on the floor of the carriage in order for everyone to fit. “Good?”

The team muttered their assent. Cole just glared. Dean just breathed a sigh of relief. It was a win, for once. Cole was alive and would be answering questions whether he liked it or not.

It took nearly an hour before that interrogation began, however, between getting back and finding Meg and settling in. When Charlie raced into the room, folded parchment in hand, Dean sighed in relief. For the first time in this Angels-forsaken case, hope bloomed in his chest. Some answers, finally. Hopefully. If Cole would talk.

Dean walked into the room where Cole now sat chained to a table, Charlie and Kevin following. He hadn’t seen a healer about his throbbing headache, the cut on his cheek, or the slash through his abdomen that went far deeper than even he realized. He’d tied a spare towel around his torso to try and stop the bleeding, but that was it. No one else noticed it, too preoccupied with other tasks. He pushed the pain aside, to be dealt with later. This interrogation could wait no longer.

Dean didn’t sit down across from Cole, instead leaning against the wall in front of him. “So,” he started, voice a bit weaker, huskier, than he intended, “we have a lot to talk about.”

Cole looked up at him murderously. “Why should I talk to you? You broke into my house and attacked me.”

“After you killed two people,” Dean reminded him. Cole looked down. “I need you to tell me why you killed them.”

“You’ve got no proof that I killed them.” Cole looked up, staring Dean down, a challenge in his eyes.

“Are you denying it, then?” Dean held Cole’s gaze until he looked away once more, at the chains between his wrists.

“No. I killed them. But there’s no way you could have known that.”

Mercifully, the man seemed to have some semblance of sanity in him. That was good. Dean sighed. “At the risk of sounding like a bigot, it’s because you're Celestial. Which sounds really bad, but A, we were right, and B, I’m sure you’ve heard of the other deaths recently. The murders.”

Cole looked up, narrowing his eyes. “All committed by— by people like me?”

“Yes. And we knew this one was connected because of a long story that I don’t think we have time for. You sound reasonably sane, for now, but who knows how long that’ll last, right?”

Cole nodded slowly. “I’ll— I’ll tell you everything I can. I want to know what’s happening to me as much as you do.

Dean let out a soft breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Okay. Awesome. I need to know why you killed them.”

Cole shuddered. “It— I don’t know. I just started getting this… energy. Angry energy, and I felt like I just had to rip something apart to get it out. I trashed my office first, then my house. But it wasn’t enough. When I saw Sarah, I knew what I had to do. And the blade, it just appeared in my hand. I killed her, and it was like there was finally some peace.” Cole swallowed, not meeting Dean’s eyes. Kevin’s quill flew across the page in a desperate attempt to catch every word.

“Where did the blade go,” Dean asked flatly, voice cracking. He crossed his arms over his stomach, the wound. It wasn’t that pressing, he told himself. He could get through this interrogation.

Cole shrugged, eyes still downcast. “I don’t know. Once she was dead, it was gone. But it came back when I killed Joe. Same deal with him. Whatever peace I had after killing Sarah was gone, and as I saw him, the blade appeared, and it’s like this itch I can’t scratch, you know?”

Ava had said the same thing, Dean remembered.

“Right,” Dean answered. “Your power. The power that was stolen. It calls to you.” It was a guess, but one he’d been ruminating on for a time now.

Cole sighed. “My father killed himself when his power was taken and he was cast out of the Guard. Now I know why. I never even got to use it much, and it’s never bothered me until now. But now… it wants out, but I can’t let it out. I don’t know _how_.”

“You're not the only one,” Dean confided. “And we don’t know why.”

Cole shook his head. “I can’t help you. I don’t know why, either. But something shifted.” Cole looked up and his eyes glazed over, became murky and unfocused. “Something… in the forest… in the mountains… something has changed…” He blinked, and his eyes returned to their normal hazel, while Dean’s had gone wide.

“Charlie,” he said, “take him to his cell. Make sure he can’t do anything to hurt himself. Kevin, take the notes to my office, then go to Frank and tell him to start whipping up a sleeping draught.” Dean lurched forward off the wall and stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table. Cole furrowed his brow.

“I got you good there, in the stomach,” he said. No malice, no smugness, just an observation.

Dean gritted his teeth. The pounding in his head worsened and the world drifted out of focus. “I’m fine,” he said anyway.

“Dean,” Charlie said, stepping forward.

Dean shook his head at her, and she faltered. “I’m fine,” he said again, straightening. “I can get myself to the med bay. You have orders. Get word out that the team is meeting… on the roof. After the sun is down all the way.”

“Which part of the roof?” was all Charlie asked, voice soft.

“Just— the roof. The big part of it.” With that, Dean walked out the door as gracefully as he could manage. The med bay wasn’t far. Just up the stairs. To the right. Not far.

Dean trailed a hand along the dungeon wall as he made his way to those stairs to keep his balance, his other hand still pressed to his stomach. It was bad, he realized, but nothing that wouldn’t be patched up in a jiffy. Maybe he shouldn’t be having any more sword fights soon, but he’d be just fine.

If Cas was still a Celestial, he could have just gone to see him. Stupid Crowley. Stupid law.

Dean was at the stairs before he even noticed, pitching forward and slamming his knees onto the edge of the second stair. He yelped in pain but dragged himself up, breathing heavily.

Just up these stairs, and then his headache would be gone, his stomach stitched.

Slowly, he made his way up the stairs and to the right. The medic frowned when she saw him enter, opened her mouth to say something, but Dean was already out.

 

 

The only person present when Dean woke was Crowley, which was, frankly, annoying. And rude. But his headache was gone, the cut on his face no longer stinging or bleeding, and though the skin on his stomached throbbed around the fresh stitches, Dean sat up.

“What time is it?” Dean asked, blinking.

Crowley didn’t even move. “Just before sundown.” Dean struggled to get up, but Crowley pushed him back down with a single finger. Dean glared at him. “Why are you having meetings in the dark, on the roof?”

“All my meetings take place in the dark. I just figured we could all use some fresh air.”

“When do you _sleep?_ ”

Dean shrugged. “Need something? I thought you wanted nothing to do with this case.”

“I don’t. Just checking on you. It’s very inconvenient for me when you injure yourself, you know.”

“Aw, Your Highness, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Again, I don’t. But you have a great deal of things to do, Captain.” Crowley gave him a meaningful look, and he nodded. “Run along to your secret meeting, then. The medic says you're to return in five days to have your stitches removed.”

Dean groaned internally. Five days. Ugh. But he hopped off the table and stalked past Crowley after giving him a two-fingered salute; he wasn’t in any position to be making bows, now.

That medic deserved a raise. Dean felt pretty good for someone who had just gotten the crap knocked out of him.

The meeting went quick, as it was really less of a meeting and more of an exchange of info. Everyone stood to leave after about five minutes, but before Meg could make her way down the stairs, Dean called her name softly. She turned back to him, arms crossed.

“At the risk of sounding like I care, you should probably go to bed,” she drawled. Dean glared flatly. Meg rolled her eyes and sat back down next to him. “Yeah, I’ve got something.”

Dean straightened, eyes widening. “Really?”

“Yep. Last night, I went to his room to drop off some reports— to spy, of course, but I heard him… talking. To someone. I couldn’t make out any words, but I asked the guards who was in there and they said no one. I walked in and there was no one. But he hid something under his pillow- probably some kind of magical talking device, is my best bet.”

Dean blew out a breath. “Not exactly damning evidence, but good work, Meg. Think you can figure out what it is?”

Meg smirked. “I may have something in mind. It’s probably best if I don’t tell you.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s actually best that you do.”

“I need to sleep on it,” she retaliated, throwing his own words back at him as she stood. “This face doesn’t just _happen,_ you know.”

“Yikes. Kind of sad to think that you put effort into it.”

Meg just sneered at him and walked away. Dean shook his head as he looked back down at the papers. Meg was his friend in the barest sense of the word, but she was the only one in the Guard he felt he could trust to rebel against Crowley, even in this small, potentially harmless way.

Dean sighed and picked up his quill. Once again, he had a lot of paperwork to do.

 

 

Probably the last thing Cas was expecting to see when he opened the door the very next morning was a grinning Captain, considering the most recent murder and the general mood he’d been in since the case had begun.

But Dean was there, on his doorstop, grinning like an idiot despite his still-hurting stitches and how the smile stretched the cut on his face. Cas, naturally, frowned at him. Rude, but Dean did look a bit of a mess. He’d just barely made it there, and his hair was flat, his clothes rumpled, and, of course, bruised and battered from his fight yesterday.

“Dean,” Cas said, dragging him inside, “What in Michael’s name happened to you?”

“This isn’t even the worst of it,” Dean informed him cheerily. “Doesn’t help that I just woke up, I guess. But no, I got in a fight yesterday.”

“With a criminal?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No, with a little girl. Duh. Man, do I have a lot to tell you. Yesterday was absolutely fucking _insane.”_

Cas closed the door. “I can see that.”

Dean smirked a little as he lifted his shirt, revealing the wound trailing from just below his right nipple all the way to his left hip, stopping right above the edge of his pants. Cas swallowed hard as he took it in, eyes roving beyond the line of the freshly stitched scar. Dean’s smirk grew as he dropped his shirt. Cas looked up to meet his eyes, cheeks pink.

Dean almost made a dangerously flirtatious comment, but instead he leaned against the windowsill, pretending not to notice Cas’ wide eyes and the way he kept biting his lip, despite the fact that even an idea of what the other man was thinking about was probably the most arousing thing ever.

 _Stay cool,_ he told himself. “So, anyway,” he started, voice too breathy, just a bit cracked. He cleared his throat. “After I left here I went over to see Sam and Jess, right? Well, they’re _pregnant.”_

Cas’ eyes, if possible, grew wider. “That’s— that’s wonderful,” he said, his voice also breathy.

Dean had to tell his story and then get out of there, because if this _whatever_ that was occupying the space between them, keeping Cas firmly planted across the room, stayed, he was going to lose his mind. The air seemed fraught with tension, even more so than usual.

He nodded. “Yep. And then—” Dean hesitated, briefly debating telling Cas about Bobby’s letter, about Eileen. But he shouldn’t have told Cas any of it in the first place. What if he’d already put him in danger? Well, more danger. Besides, nothing much had even happened. “Then I went back up to the castle, and Jo, Charlie, Benny, and Kevin— members of the City Guard and part of my team for the case— came tumbling in and told me that they figured out who the killer was.”

Cas raised his eyebrows. Dean grinned and nodded, and Cas looked away, so Dean did too, out the window. “So we went to his house, and naturally I wound up finding him and we got into a fight,” Dean said, gesturing at his various bruises and the cut on his face. “But I won, obviously, and when we interrogated the guy, he actually talked to us.”

“What did he say?” Cas asked, finally stepping forward and taking a seat on the counter, barely five feet from Dean. Dean closed his eyes. He was barely in control of his instincts on a regular basis, but today was different. He turned anyway, after ignoring Cas for a good fifteen seconds. Cas had his cheeks stuffed full of grapes, and Dean couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Cas just raised his eyebrows and shoved another grape in. Dean just snorted and shook his head, his nerves calming; crisis averted by Cas being a complete and utter dork. All Dean had to do was make sure he didn’t walk over there and take some of those grapes from him—

“Well, lots of things,” Dean went on, staring down at the table Cas was sitting on instead of his face. He told him everything Cole had said, every word calming him more and more until it felt like some of the tension had eased. Not entirely, though. Never entirely.

Dean had long accepted the fact that it wouldn’t take much encouraging for him to say fuck it, pin Cas against a wall and stick his tongue down his throat. But he did have some restraint, actually. And common sense. It was bad enough that he considered Cas a friend and would have to turn him in, there was no need to add any other feelings into that mix.

But again, he wouldn’t need much encouragement to chuck that out the window either, so he was grateful when he noticed that the blush had faded from Cas’ cheeks and it was a whole lot easier to look him in the eyes than it had been a minute ago.

“You think an Angel is behind this?” Cas asked, eyebrow raised as Dean left the window and sat across from him on the countertop.

Dean shrugged, tugging a grape off its stem. “Maybe. It’s a possibility.”

Cas hummed in agreement. “No one’s seen any of them since… ever. Legend claims Lucifer locked them in Heaven when they locked him in the Dead Lands, but no one knows. ”

“I don’t know, dude.” Dean popped the grape into his mouth, savoring the satisfying crunch as he stared over Cas’ head at nothing. “We’ve still got a long way to go. But we have something.”

Cas nodded, also staring off into the distance. “It could be the bloodline,” he said suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“The Celestials, the reasons they’re being picked, could be about their bloodline. Whichever Angel sired their ancestors. Maybe… maybe it’s going in order of who has the strongest blood of a certain Angel.”

Dean sighed. “No way to know, though. It’s been, like, five hundred years since any Angels sired anyone, and Celestial bloodlines cross all the time.”

“Very true. But we could guess. If Cole said it had something to do with the forest, perhaps there was a certain Angel associated with it?”

Dean grinned. “You know, I’m really not supposed to tell you any of this stuff.”

“I thought you were the boss?”

“Yep, and I told everyone not to tell anyone anything, yet here we are. Hey, open your mouth.” Cas frowned at him. “Just do it.” Cas opened his mouth a bit tentatively. Dean’s first grape bounced off his eye. Cas glared at him. Dean’s second throw landed right in his mouth.

Cas shook his head as he crushed the fruit between his teeth. “I do not understand you.”

“Good. Gotta keep you on your toes.”

Cas just continued shaking his head, working another grape off the vine. When Dean looked away, he threw it at him and it bounced off his cheek and onto the floor.

“Joke’s on you, Cas,” Dean said as he hopped off the counter and bent over, picking up the grape. He looked Cas dead in the eye and he dropped it directly into his mouth.

“The joke will be on you when you die of some deadly disease.”

“I doubt there are any diseases on your floor.”

“I think you're the disease on my floor.”

Dean put a hand to his chest in mock offense. _“Ouch,_ Cas. You wound me.”

Cas looked very much like he was fighting a smile as he said, “I’m sure you’ll heal.”

Dean shook his head. “What, from my disease?”

“I’m afraid you're stuck with that.” Dean snorted and resumed his perch on the counter. “Is Sam excited to be a father?”

Dean smiled. “Over the moon, actually. He and Jess are gonna be great parents.”

“I would imagine. Do you…” Cas hesitated, rolling a grape between his fingers, one of the last. “Do you think you’ll ever be a father?”

“No,” Dean responded, a blunt edge to his words. “No, I don’t. But I think it’d be cool to do what Bobby did, you know? Become a parent to some kids who don’t have any.”

For the second time that day, Cas almost smiled. Almost. “I don’t suppose you could ever just stop being so noble, could you?”

Dean blushed. “It’s not really that noble. _I’m_ not.”

“Remind me again of the difference in crime rates between now and before your promotion?” Cas asked, raising his eyebrows.

“That’s just doing my job.”

Cas shook his head. “Well, you're very good at it.”

“Oh, I know,” Dean responded. He wondered if Cas would say the same thing if he knew that their entire friendship was just him doing his job, wondered if he would understand that in the end his betrayal would just be him doing his job.

Then again, if that was the case, just thinking about their inevitable end wouldn’t feel like a punch to the gut, and it wouldn’t truly be betrayal. It would feel like it, though. To both of them.

 

 

Crowley huffed and dropped his arm dramatically onto the table. “You need to find a way to build his trust in you _faster._ ”

Dean gritted his teeth. He barely tolerated Crowley at the best of times, and being lectured about things he had no control over was not one of those times. Not to mention the fact that the King had kicked him out of his own damn chair.

“I’d love to hear your ideas.”

Crowley glared at him. “I’d love to go a day without any _lip_ from you. Create dangerous situations. Save his life a couple times, I don’t care, just _do_ it. Sleep with him if you have to.”

Dean blushed furiously, mouth falling open. “I am _not_ — _”_

“Oh, please, don’t be a prude. As long as you stay on track with the mission.”

Dean’s blush did not fade. He kicked at the floor, dragging the toe of his boot over the rough concrete. “I’m not gonna sleep with him.”

“I’m not asking you to, just figure something out.”

Dean sighed. “Is this really so time-sensitive?”

“I’m worried that the more time you spend with him the more _feelings_ you’ll develop for him. And no one needs that.”

“I don’t have feelings for him.” Every word felt like a betrayal, laying the groundwork for the end of their story.

“Please. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this, you know. My only concern is that these feelings will become enough for you to… rebel.”

Little did Crowley know that Dean was already rebelling, just a bit. And it had nothing to do with Cas. _Ha._

“I’m not an idiot. I’ll complete the mission.”

“You better. I don’t think it’ll be hard to imagine what’ll happen to you if you fail. I’d have to reevaluate the loyalty of all my guards and see if you corrupted that young baby brother of yours and his wife… someone would have to be punished, you see. It’s an avoidable hassle.” Crowley spoke slowly, allowing Dean to imagine the horrors that would fall upon his friends, his family if he failed. Anger coiled in his gut.

If he tried to _touch_ Sam—

Dean took a deep breath and nodded, voice cold. “I understand. Don’t worry about it. Just give me more time.”

Crowley studied him, a reproachful purse to his lips. “Hm. We will see. In the meantime, I’ve received word that there have been several fires all over Eureva. In the mountains, in the forest. Go investigate, take a walk to clear your mind.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll be on that, sir, if you’ll get out of my chair.”

Crowley squinted at him. “You see, that’s what I like about you. No matter how much I tell you to watch your mouth, you keep up with the sass. Quite refreshing. Keep the disobedience to that, though, Captain. Remember— _loyalty_.”

Dean frowned as Crowley stood and left the room, leaving Dean staring at a blank wall, hands clasped behind his back.

Loyalty? Before anyone, even the King, Dean’s loyalties would forever be with Sam. And if putting the King’s wishes before Cas would be what kept Sam safe, then that’s what he was going to do, no matter how badly his chest burned with want at Crowley’s suggestions. It didn’t matter how sweet Cas was, the way he smiled without ever actually smiling. The brightness of his eyes and his whiplash wit that had Dean chuckling hours after a comment was made didn’t change anything.

Sam was first— always, period, the end.

 

 

Dean and Cas were in the marketplace again, the sun beaming down rays of hot, sweaty light on them. The days of summer were waning now, with the Autumn Equinox only a week away, but it was still almost unbearably hot. Dean was in his Captain’s uniform,

though he’d ditched his usual cloak and was now dressed in a plain buckled tunic with the Guard’s insignia embroidered small on his chest and large on his back, his pin glinting in the light at his shoulder. He’d rolled up the sleeves to his elbows before they’d even stepped outside. Cas, the moron, had his long tan cloak on.

“Cas, you look like you're dying. How can you wear that thing?” Dean asked, tossing an apple up into the air and catching it deftly. It went higher and higher with each throw.

“I like it,” Cas defended, stopping to stare briefly at a painting. He scratched at his bandages; they should probably change those soon. “Besides, it’s already with us and I don’t want to carry it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I told you not to bring it.”

“Well, I’m sure at some point you were told not to break people’s arms, yet here we are.”

Dean glared at him. “It was an accident, for the trillionth time.”

Cas smirked. They had reached the North edge of the market, facing the castle and the city. Both of them stared for a moment at the fantastic stone structure, spiraling towers, and doors bigger and taller than both of them stacked on top of each other four times. The grounds were beautiful, too, rolling green hills with trees and bright, colorful patches of flowers.

“I used to work there,” Cas said suddenly. He didn’t sound sad, or resentful— just stating a fact.

“Wow, what a coincidence, I still work there. Technically, I work in, like, the whole country, but that’s where my office is.”

Cas continued walking but turned East, towards the forest. Dean had mentioned having to go out there and investigate the fires, and Cas had wanted to tag along for whatever reason. Dean figured there was no harm in it, so they were heading out to the Hale Woods, where several fires had been reported in the past few weeks. Since Dean was just investigating the cause of the fires, he’d intended to go alone. No need to pull a bunch of people from their routines for a few fires that could just be nothing but summer heat and dry leaves.

“I’ve never been to the woods,” Cas commented when the path came into view.

Dean blinked at him. “You’ve lived in Lavendel your whole life and you’ve never been to Hale?”

Cas shook his head. “I’ve never had occasion. Are you telling me you’ve scoured every inch of your hometown?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I could draw you a pretty detailed map, if that’s what you mean. I spent a lot of time exploring, you know, at night and stuff when I couldn’t sleep.”

“That seems unwise.”

“Yeah, maybe. Mostly I’d just hang out by the shore, draw in the sand.”

They reached the woods, where the canopy of trees made the air about ten degrees cooler and the sun was no longer in their eyes. The soft crunch of leaves under their feet was satisfying. Cas was looking up to the tall reaches of the oaks, the green reflecting back into his eyes. Dean looked away when Cas looked back down at him.

They walked in silence for a while, letting the sounds of nature say their piece. Once they’d been walking about an hour, Cas said, “I’m curious. In Revelan, at the shore, could you see the border between the sea and the Boiling Ocean?”

Dean shivered at the mere sound of those four syllables. In Revelan, calling the Boiling Ocean by its name was practically taboo; everyone was terrified of it, being so close. Legends about what happened if you swam beyond the waters of the Brenna Sea and into the frightful torrents of the Boiling Ocean were ingrained in the hearts of every resident of the city by the sea.

Seven years removed from the ocean, and Dean still dreamt about it sometimes. He dreamt about the souls.

The Boiling Ocean was the barrier between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Technically, a living person could cross the Boiling Ocean and go into the Dead Lands, but a round trip had only ever been made once, centuries ago.

Bobby had taken Dean out to the edge a few times in a boat. They never dared get too close, but they’d been close enough to see the spirits that seemed to float on the water, all of them headed for the same destination: the Dead Lands. They weren’t visible in the living world, they simply appeared over the ocean. It was chilling.

“From— from the shore? Barely. But there’s always the clouds, they’re a little easier to see. Most people try to avoid looking too closely,” Dean responded simply.

“How close have you gotten?”

Dean coughed, stumbling over a root. “Close. Ten yards. It’s... terrifying. I couldn’t imagine going in there. I knew a few people that tried, and none of them ever came back. Even when you're right up at the barrier you can’t see what’s in there, just that the water’s crazy and the clouds and… the spirits.”

Cas’ eyes widened and he stopped, grabbing Dean’s wrist. “You can see them?”

Dean took a breath as he drank in Cas’ frightened eyes. He was still holding his wrist. “Yeah. They kinda just appear at the barrier and it’s like they’re… pulled, towards the East, towards the Dead Lands.”

Cas’ mouth dropped open in horror. Yeah, that had pretty much been Dean’s reaction, too.

Dean cleared his throat and walked on, pulling his arm out of Cas’ grip. Cas followed a moment later. “Does the ocean actually boil?”

Dean rolled his eyes. And, there it was. “No. One time a friend of mine actually fell in the water _,_ and he swam back over the barrier, fine as anything. Scared out of his mind, but fine.”

“That’s some relief, at least.”

Both Dean and Cas stopped as their destination became strikingly apparent. Just ahead, all they could see was _black_.

It wasn’t the same sort of blackness as nightfall or a room with no light. Blackness in that literally everything in view was black. A field of what once had been glittering green leaves and branches now lay in black ash under their feet. The only hint that this clearing had once been part of a forest was the charred, broken trunks that still partially remained. Cas poked one. It crumbled apart.

Dean frowned. This… wasn’t normal. The damage was too concentrated, almost a perfect circle only one hundred feet in diameter. And fire disintegrated, turned everything into white ash, not charcoal.

Fear, cold and wild, gripped Dean’s lungs tightly. He almost couldn’t breathe.

“Cas,” he whispered, as his friend wandered further into the clearing. “Cas! We have to go, right now.”

Cas turned to look at him with a furrowed brow. “Go? But—”

A mighty roar echoed along the forest from the top of the mountain. Dean sucked in a breath and ran to Cas, snatching his good arm and dragging him away from the piles of ash.

“That’s why! Shit, fucking shit. This is the least good thing, ever.”

“A dragon?” Cas asked as they ran, boots slipping on tree roots and fallen branches.

A second roar, now closer, answered his question.

Dean felt the heat on his back as the dragon aimed a beam of fire at them, just barely managing to escape its range. Cas screamed next to him, in fear or pain Dean couldn’t tell. He flung a hand out, one Cas took. His grip was firm, so Dean figured he was probably fine.

The dragon roared once more. If they went back to the city, it would follow, Dean realized. Completely unacceptable.

He veered right, hard, Cas stumbling against him but quickly finding his footing. Dean grit his teeth as he heard the unmistakable sound of flame, still far too close for comfort.

Dean wasn’t sure how deep into the woods they were, if there was any chance of someone seeing either the dragon or the beams of light it was breathing out. If they had any hope of being helped.

Dean looked over at Cas, who was sweating hard and out of breath. Dean, too, was slowing, his chest heaving. They couldn’t outrun this thing much longer.

Making a split-second decision, Dean stopped and turned, shoving Cas out of the way with one hand and drawing his sword with the other. The dragon landed lightly onto the path, growling at Dean. It was nearly sixty feet tall, not including the curved horns protruding from above its cruel yellow eyes. Its crimson scales glinted in the shafts of sunlight through the trees, beaming light into Dean’s eyes. Smoke curled from its nostrils, and a long, powerful tail swung back and forth behind it.

“Look,” he said, adjusting his grip on his sword. “I don’t know what your deal is—”

The dragon tilted its head, and Dean couldn’t help but think of Cas. It opened its mouth, revealing pointed teeth that could tear Dean apart in a moment. “The forest is dying, the mountains are poisoned.”

“I—” Dean lowered his sword, ever so slightly. “What?”

“The forest is being demolished in the East, men slicing their blades into the trees and taking more than they need, the mountains are being pillaged for their goods.”

“Right, the forest is dying and you think, hey, you know what’ll help? Lighting it on fire. Excellent.” The adrenaline that came with his snark was kind of like when he talked back to Crowley without thinking, a mix of smugness and trepidation.

The dragon snorted at him, and Dean remembered that he was supposed to be terrified. He raised his sword again.

“I did it with the hope that one of your kind would come, come hear me.” The dragon lowered itself onto its belly, stretching its neck closer to Dean, whose instincts screamed at him to run, yet he held his ground. “It is your responsibility to put some end to the greed of man. Your King is looking for something that does not belong to him. His search is killing the mountain, killing the forest.”

“My responsibility?” Dean asked, a slight quiver to his voice. “Why in the name of Michael is it my responsibility?”

It stretched its wings and flapped them once before settling them back against its body. “I smell it on you. You are a leader.”

“Yeah, of the Guard. Definitely not of the King.”

The dragon studied him, a small, terrified human with a sword he knew would be little help if it came to a fight. He wouldn’t look to Cas, in case the dragon didn’t realize he was still there.

“We shall see. If the forest continues to die, human, know that you will be to blame.”

“That’s not _fair._ The forest isn’t my problem. I’m not the one killing it, and I don’t have any power over anyone that is.”

The dragon roared, rearing up onto its hind legs. “Then you are useless.”

Dean just barely managed to sprint out of the way as the dragon loaded up another deadly beam of flame, but he was too close. The heat blasted against his face, and he threw an arm up to shield himself, singeing off a layer of skin. Not a bad burn, but serious enough to hurt like shit.

He sent up a quick prayer to the Angels that Cas was far enough away to have avoided the blast before turning around and charging back in, darting between the dragon’s legs and lunging upwards with his sword—

Dean was flung into a tree, the dragon’s claw digging into the fleshy meat of his thigh. Dean screamed through his teeth as he fell to the ground, his body now aching. Still he stood, sword in hand, a determined set to his face and he limped forward again. The dragon laughed.

“Oh, humanity. The sheer _stubbornness_ alone has never failed to amuse me. Can’t you see that this is hopeless? You utter fool. The insanity will never end, Captain, if you do not save the forests, save the mountains. They’re connected to them, the Celestials. The Angels made both, and their power is designed to save it, protect you mewling humans. But it’s gone and it’s driving them mad, one by one, can’t you _see?”_

Dean stopped in his tracks, even his heart missing a beat.

_Something shifted. Something… in the forest… in the mountains… something has changed…_

Well, that answered that question. Everything is Crowley’s fault, officially. But what was he looking for?

Cas peeked out at him from behind a tree. He raised his arm and made a throwing motion. Dean winked at him.

He gripped his sword in front of him with two hands, and the dragon laughed again as Dean heaved the weapon over his head and flung it with all his might. Forest to save or not, no one slams him into a tree and gets away with it.

He had been aiming for the eye, but instead he watched as his sword buried itself to the hilt in the dragon’s nostril.

Everyone froze. Dean stared in horror at his sword; the dragon did the same. Cas was staring in horror at Dean.

Weaponless and alone against a dragon, what do you do?

The answer, obviously, is run for your life while the beast is distracted trying to pull a sword out of its nose. Dean, though, had a slightly different approach.

He ran right at the beast, ignoring Cas’ shouts of warning and the tear in his leg, the pull in his shoulder. He landed on the dragon’s bent knee in one mighty leap and used the scales as hand and foot holds, climbing up the dragon’s body to its back. He ran up the length of its spine.

 _This is a bad idea,_ Dean thought.

Cas, screaming at him from the ground, agreed.

Oh well.

When he reached the monster’s shoulder, Dean made an impossible leap. Impossible as in he’d never make it, but also impossible as in impossibly stupid. He jumped, eyeing the

still-visible hilt of his sword—

He grabbed it.

He pulled it out of the dragon’s nose while it clawed at its own shoulder, searching for Dean, who landed very painfully and very ungracefully on the forest floor. His shoulder was dislocated, he could feel it.

The dragon, with a bloody nose and a mangled shoulder of its own making, roared. Dean gritted his teeth and he stood, gripping his weapon in one hand.

As the dragon turned a beady yellow eye onto Dean once more, he nearly whimpered. He fell onto his knee, stretching his injured leg out behind him. He bowed his head.

 _Fuck_.

“Hey!”

Both Dean and the dragon’s heads whipped around to Cas, who had shed his armor of trees and was now standing at least twenty yards behind Dean.

“Cas, no,” Dean pleaded, dragging himself to his feet once more. He stumbled forward, but neither dragon nor human looked at him.

The dragon cocked its head. “Maybe this will motivate you, Captain. The madness will take him, too. The power in him has no escape and it will drive him mad.”

It advanced on Cas slowly as it spoke; Cas just stood there with his hands clenched into fists at his sides, looking up into the great scaled face of the dragon. He didn’t so much as twitch at its words, its promise of insanity.

Dean choked on another yell, one he knew was no use. He eyed the dark underbelly of the creature. They were always taught, with dragons, to go for the eyes, because if you went low it would probably fall on you. But there was no way Dean was doing any more throwing with his shoulder. So, once more ignoring the pain in his leg, he ran forward and underneath the dragon, stabbing up into the belly above his head—

The sword stuck. Dean kept running, having to slide to escape the underbelly of the beast as it fell. Dean lay gasping and heaving on the ground, his heart beating so fast he thought it might explode.

He blinked, and there was Cas leaning above him. He was saying something, but Dean couldn’t make it out; his ears were ringing, and his face hurt, he realized. From crashing into the tree? Had he hit his head lunging away from the dragon? He couldn’t tell.

The ringing receded slightly. “Dean? Dean, can you hear me?”

The dragon was laughing as it lay dying. Dean turned his head to look at it. “You're a fool, human,” it said, “A fool with the weight of the world on his shoulders.” The dragon seemed to roll its eyes, one last time. “Angels save us.”

Silence fell across the forest, and Dean knew the dragon was dead. He sighed in relief.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, turning his head back to Cas above him. “Tell me you know how to pop a shoulder joint back in.”

Cas nodded and placed a hand on Dean’s stomach and uninjured shoulder, easing him into a sitting position. His hand was warm, and Dean wanted to grab it, pin it against his skin, but he refrained.

Cas flipped around so he was kneeling in front of Dean, straddling his injured leg. Gently, he wrapped his unbroken hand against Dean’s forearm of his dislocated shoulder, blessedly the unburned one, and rested his injured hand against Dean’s other shoulder. He started pulling, easing the joint back out. Dean gritted his teeth, but when he felt it snap back into place he screamed, pitching forward into Cas’ stomach.

Cas didn’t miss a beat, bending his knees so his ass rested on his ankles. He took Dean’s face between his hands, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Are you alright?”

Dean laughed. His vision was starting to go fuzzy. “We gotta… the castle. Gotta tell people about… dragons. Plus, I’m— got a… concussion. And my leg…” Cas looked down at the gash that stretched across the top of Dean’s leg and hissed, squeezing Dean’s face slightly. “Stitches. Sam. Castle? Cas, we’re going…” Dean trailed off, eyes sliding down to where the inside of Cas’ thigh brushed the outside of his own.

Cas nodded. “I understand, Dean.” His hands trailed down Dean’s arms and he grabbed his hands, pulling both of them to their feet. He slung Dean’s uninjured shoulder over his own, grasping that hand with his broken one and winding his other arm around Dean’s waist.

Dean tried to find his footing but stumbled and dragged his feet. “Dean,” Cas said in his ear. “Dean, I need you to be able to walk on your own. Please. Just until we get to the city.”

Dean nearly cried, but Cas had said please. He still stumbled, and both of their arms grew stiff over nearly three hours trying to find their way through the wood. By the time they stumbled out of the line of trees, Dean was barely aware of anything.

“Dean? Dean,” Cas said, half dragging him down an empty street. It was nighttime. Oh no. Dean was late for work. Jo was going to tan his hide.

Oh, wait. Dean was boss of himself. Still, it was rude.

“Dean, we’re much closer to the Roadhouse than the castle.” Cas sounded weary and out of breath. “I’m going to get your brother to help me.”

Dean shook his head. “Can’t. Can’t. It’s nighttime and he runs a bar. Find— just scream, really loud. Someone should be patrolling nearby.”

“Screaming will aggravate your concussion,” Cas pointed out.

“Yeah, and?”

Cas stared at him and took a breath. “Hello?” he shouted. He was right. That did aggravate Dean’s concussion.

No response. Dean groaned.

Cas sighed. “We need help!” he called, louder this time.

They waited a moment, clutching onto each other in the darkness, Dean’s consciousness fading every second. Suddenly, they heard it: the distinct sound of soldier’s boots.

Cas sagged in relief, Dean sagging with him. “Oh, it better not be someone stupid. I’m gonna be so mad.”

Cas snorted as the two figures came around the corner, jogging. Even at a distance of thirty yards in the dark, Charlie was recognizable by her bright red hair. Thank the Angels. And Charlie always patrolled with Benny. Perfect.

“Dean!” Charlie shouted, sprinting over to him, easing herself into his other side. Dean winced but let her. “Oh, by the Angels.”

Benny was a close second behind her. “What in the name of Michael happened to you?”

“He fought a dragon by himself,” Cas said tiredly. “He has a concussion, a broken nose, and a terrible cut on his thigh that needs stitches. Plus a burned forearm.”

Charlie cursed under her breath. “Of course. You're Castiel, right?”

Cas stepped away from Dean, dropping all his weight onto Charlie, who took it like a champ. Dean moaned softly at the loss of warmth. “Yes. If you’d like, I feel it necessary to inform Sam of Dean’s injuries.”

Benny nodded, taking up Cas’ abandoned post at Dean’s side. “Of course. Thanks, brother. We’ll take him up to the medic in the palace.”

Cas nodded. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Cas?”

The last thing Dean saw before drifting out of consciousness was Cas, turning on his heel and walking away, head hung.

 

 

Dean woke to what he was very comfortable calling the most awkward situation, ever.

Cas was sitting in one chair, at the foot of his bed, looking tense and ready to run out of there the moment he knew Dean was okay. Sam and Jess leaned against the opposite wall, whispering to each other. Next to them stood Eileen. Dean supposed he’d missed their meeting. Shit. She looked severely out of place there, yet unwilling to leave. Touching. The King stood by the door, arms crossed and glaring at Cas.

The good news was that he was considerably less sore than he had been upon falling into a coma; his leg no longer felt like a canyon had been opened up on it, and his concussion had faded to a dull, throbbing ache. Plus, he could already feel that the stitches on his stomach were out. His burned arm wasn’t even bandaged, just red and sore.

“Um,” Dean said, sitting up, “wasn’t aware this was going to be a party.”

Sam and Jess sprang forward off the wall. Eileen merely watched him, and Cas straightened in his chair. He looked tired, with bags under his eyes and stubble on his chin. Crowley simply switched his glare from Cas to Dean.

“The doctor said you’d shown signs of waking up,” Jess said in a soft voice. “Cas came and got us about an hour ago.”

“How do you feel?” Sam pressed in an equally soft voice that sounded suspiciously like pity.

“Like I got beaten up by a dragon,” Dean answered bluntly. “Cas, you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean. My wrist is still broken.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Dean pointedly looked away, coughing. “Not for much longer, Cas. But now _I’m_ crippled. You’ll have to come turn the pages in my books until I’m recovered.”

Cas smirked lightly, flicking his eyes down to the floor. “I wasn’t aware you knew how to read,” he said quietly, as if he was afraid of teasing Dean in front of so many people, his family. It was true that their friendship had never had much of an audience.

Sam cleared his throat. “We’ll wait outside,” he said pointedly. Dean glared at him. He and Jess walked out, Eileen following, leaving an even more fantastically awkward atmosphere in their wake.

Crowley cleared his throat as well. “Captain, your second will be here at sundown to take your statement on what exactly happened here.”

Dean nodded, but Crowley was gone before he could get a single word in. He rolled his eyes at the King’s retreating back and turned to Cas. The dragon. It had confirmed their theories, about everything, and it’d—

“Cas,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard. “Cas, you're sure you're okay? No sudden desire to kill anyone or anything?”

Cas smiled softly. “No. There are a lot of Celestials in this city, Dean. It seems my time has not yet come.”

“Don’t say that. I need— shit, how long was I out?”

“The equinox is in two days,” Cas responded. “The medic informed me that you would be waking sometime today, and I made sure to fetch Sam. I’m not entirely sure why the King was here.”

“I’m sure he rejoices at seeing me in pain,” Dean told him. Cas frowned. “Have—” Dean gulped. “Have you been here the whole time?”

Cas didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“Angels. Okay, what happened after I was out?”

“Many things, what would you like to know?” Dean glared. Cas smirked. “I told your brother what happened. He was very busy, but came up the next morning to see you. When I got here, practically half the City Guard was in here.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Slackers.”

Cas huffed in agreement. “Then your second— Meg?— cornered me and I told her everything that happened. She’s very terrifying, I understand why you chose her to be your second in command.” Dean grinned. “There was one more suicide, two days after the dragon. Celestial, of course.” Cas hesitated, looking up to meet Dean’s eyes. “I didn’t tell Meg what the dragon said, about anything. I wasn’t sure if she was involved in the case or not, and you did say I wasn’t supposed to know about it”

Dean settled back against his pillows with a sigh. He hadn’t really processed that himself. What was he supposed to do if Crowley was expanding mining or the lumber industry or whatever? It really wasn’t any of his damn business, but it was apparently killing people.

And yet… Crowley had very explicitly stated that he would be offering them no help. There was no way Dean could convince him to stop excessive pillaging of natural resources. The dragon said he was looking for him, and if he was looking that hard, there was nothing Dean would be able to do to stop him.

“Yeah, good call, Cas,” Dean eventually said. “For the record, though, Meg might be the most trustworthy person in this place. Besides me. Even though I hate her sometimes, and only in an enemy-of-my-enemy way.”

Cas frowned. “Who’s your enemy?”

Dean paused. He wasn’t quite sure he could go around spouting off that he was spying on the King, that he even suspected him of anything, even if Cas, too, was an enemy of Crowley.

“Injustice,” he responded blandly.

Cas narrowed his eyes at him but sighed and stood. “What now?” he asked.

Dean was so tired of asking himself that. At this point he was inclined to just… give up. Give up on everything, grab Cas and Sam and Jess and run away to where Crowley wouldn’t even think to look.

“I don’t know, Cas. Can’t do much of anything for a couple weeks, at least, not with my shoulder.”

“Five weeks,” Cas agreed. “At least you didn’t break your wrist. I’ve heard it takes two months for that to heal.”

Dean stuck his tongue out at him. Cas returned the gesture, and Sam and Jess poked their heads back in. Eileen walked in behind them, resuming her position in the corner.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said with a grin.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Jess asked, though she was smiling as well. “Look at you, our brave dragon slayer.” Cas smiled faintly, and Dean looked away from him to his sister-in-law.

“Don’t worry, Jess, I’m sure you’ll be able to slay a dragon one day, too,” Dean assured her. She made to swat him but thought better of it, instead flicking him in the nose.

“Not in this condition, I won’t,” she assured him. Sam grinned behind her.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Cas said softly. “I’m not sure if I said that before.”

Jess beamed. “Thank you, Cas. We’re really excited.”

“Oh, really? Are you?” Dean teased.

Sam glared at his brother. “Thanks, Cas. And I’m not sure if I said this before, but thanks for saving my brother’s life.”

Dean grinned up at Cas, who looked down and away, though his blush was obvious. “My knight in shining armor.” Cas’ blush deepened. “So, does anyone have any doctor’s orders for me, or can I just get back to it?”

 _“No,”_ Sam said bitchily. “You can’t just ‘get back to it’. You’ve got more stitches in your thigh, and no doing anything that could rip them. So no running, kicking, or extreme stretching.”

Dean mouthed the words ‘extreme stretching,’ to Cas, who rolled his eyes. What in the Dead Lands was extreme stretching? Fucking Sam.

“You also have a concussion, but that should be fine in a couple days, and your arm just needs aloe; it’s basically a sunburn at this point. The real issue is your shoulder. You're supposed to wear a sling for another week and then you can’t do any heavy lifting for the entire Autumn season.”

Dean scoffed. “Uh, yeah, no.”

“Dean,” Cas reprimanded, “You need to let yourself heal.”

“Pfft. Hey, Eileen?” Dean said, craning his head and waving at the shy girl. She waved back. “Hi. This is Cas, by the way.” Cas turned around and frowned but waved at her. “Cas, Eileen works with Sam and Jess at the Roadhouse.”

Cas looked suspicious. “Hello.”

Eileen just waved again. “Hi, Cas.”

Cas’ eyes actually lit up at that, the sound of her voice. “Are you deaf?” he asked, accompanied by some weird hand movements. Sam and Jess looked impressed.

Eileen smiled. “Yes,” she responded, with a raised fist at her shoulder, bringing it up and down. “You can sign?” she asked, with more hand movements.

“A friend of mine taught me,” Cas explained. “Her daughter is deaf.”

Dean looked up at Sam. “What’s happening right now?”

Cas glared at him. “It’s sign language, Dean.”

“Hey, don’t yell at me, I’m concussed.”

Cas gave him a long-suffering sigh. Sam, though, crouched down next to Dean’s bed and pouted at him. “Does the little baby need a nap?”

“Sam, I will kill you in your sleep. Get your disgusting oversized face outta here.”

“Whatever, jerk, I have to go to work. We’ve been closed because your dumb ass decided to fight a dragon.”

“Bitch. You make it sound like I walked up to it and started insulting its fashion sense.”

“You kind of did,” Cas betrayed. Dean’s jaw fell open in mock offense.

Jess laughed, shaking her head. “We really do have to go now, Dean, but we’re glad you're okay. Really. Where else would we get free babysitting?”

Dean scoffed but accepted her goodbye hug, Sam’s as well. Eileen informed them that she would meet them at the carriage in a minute.

“Did you still want to talk to me about… what you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked, signing along with her words.

Cas raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Dean nodded. “Yeah, yeah whenever you can.” Cas signed his words to Eileen, who looked beyond grateful. Dean couldn’t imagine it was easy, having to read lips all the time. “Day after the equinox? I know Sam always closes then.”

Eileen nodded and left, leaving Dean and Cas alone once more. “What do you need to talk to her about?” He was still signing.

“Cas, you know she left, you don’t need to do that.” Cas looked down at his hands, blushed, and fisted them in the hem of his shirt. “And it’s… nothing.” Cas frowned. Dean sighed and lowered his voice. “Nothing I’m gonna talk about here, alright?” Cas’ eyes widened, and while it was true, Dean might have begun to panic a bit.

If Cas thought he didn’t trust the King, it would only make him trust him more. And then everything would come crashing down.

Dean cleared his throat. “So, your wrist is probably just about healed.”

Cas still frowned as he examined his own arm, the fresh bandages on it. “Yes. The medic looked at it while you were asleep. She said she would remove the cast on the equinox.” Cas looked up, smirking at Dean slightly. “She also said you weren’t allowed to leave here until then.”

Dean groaned, sinking his head further into the pillow. “She’s not the boss of me,” he pouted.

Cas’ smirk fell, and his face became serious as he studied Dean, his scarred and pallid face, his arm in a sling, his other arm red and peeling. Dean didn’t want to know what he was thinking. “Do—” Cas cleared his throat and sat down in the chair he had originally occupied. “Would you like me to stay with you?”

Dean grinned. Crowley would give him another lecture for it, but, “Yeah. Stay as long as you want.”

 

 

The next two days were perhaps the most boring of Dean’s entire life. Cas was there most of the time, which was great, but as suspected, as soon as he left Crowley came in and tore him a new one about being too attached, partly but mostly because he invited a royal thief into the palace. Dean tuned most of it out. If Crowley didn’t like his methods, he shouldn’t have asked him to go undercover in the first place.

Was it even undercover if Cas knew exactly who he was and what he did? Dean still couldn’t figure out why Cas had befriended him in spite of that. Maybe he wanted to be caught.

Or maybe he needed a way into the castle.

Dean really didn’t care, at this point. If Cas wanted to be stupid and try and just walk right into whatever room Crowley kept the artifacts, it just made everything easier for Dean.

It didn’t, actually, because Crowley still needed to know where the rest of the artifacts were, and if Cas wouldn’t tell, someone would have to beat it out of him.

That someone would have to be Dean, of course. So yeah, actually, maybe he should have been keeping a closer eye on Cas.

In a rare moment when Cas was out of the room, Meg slipped in silently, making Dean jump. He’d been staring out the window and hadn’t seen her or the door opening until his second was standing by his bed.

“Angels, Meg, don’t do that!”

“Not my fault you don’t pay attention.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “Remember what I said to you last week?”

“You said a lot of things to me last week.”

Meg scowled. “About Crowley. The thing he used to talk to someone who wasn’t there.”

Dean sat up straighter. Truthfully, he’d forgotten about that in all the chaos that succeeded that little tidbit. “What about it?”

“I know what it is.”

Meg did not elaborate.

“...Well?”

Meg sighed and sat down in Cas’ chair. Dean frowned but didn’t say anything. “Well, it isn’t what I originally thought. I was thinking some sort of mini scry, a witch’s tool. But I did some snooping, and I found… a cup.”

“A cup?”

“A cup.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Are you sure?”

Meg nodded. “It had weird symbols on it and it was the only thing out of place.”

“How could he use a cup to talk to people?”

The shrug of Meg’s shoulders only served to irritate Dean. “Maybe he’s just bonkers.”

Dean huffed. “Great, that’s super helpful.”

Meg studied him for a long moment. “Why are you so desperate to bust him?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You could, but you already know the answer. What’s he making you do that you don’t wanna do?”

Cas appeared suddenly in the open doorway and Dean stiffened. He was holding a bouquet of various loose flowers. “The gardeners are very particular about their flowers, they were ripping these out because they had too many. As if there’s ever too— oh. Hello, Meg.”

Meg smirked. “Hello, Castiel. I was just leaving.” She stood from the chair and winked at Dean. “Captain.” She sauntered out, past a puzzled-looking Cas and down the hall.

“What was that about?” Cas asked Dean, resuming his chair, arms still full of flowers.

“Nothing. Those for me? Romantic.”

Cas threw a rose at his face. “Would you like one? Here’s a lily, they symbolize death. Fitting, as you continue to act like you're on your death bed.”

“You never know, Cas. Crazy things happen all the time. One minute you're just innocently buying fruit and then _bam!_ Your arm is broken. It’s a dangerous world.”

 

 

The morning of the Autumn Equinox, Cas had actually fallen asleep in his chair, pitched forward to where his head now rested on Dean’s thigh, arms folded underneath. Luckily it was his healthy thigh, though the cut had scabbed over by now. Dean woke up to light filtering in the window of the guest room he was staying in. His own room was too small for the medic to operate in, apparently. This room was twice as large, which truly wasn’t saying much. He couldn’t help but prefer the rich red velvet drapes, the thick knitted blanket and feather stuffed pillow to his own meager linen coverings and lumpy pillow. Yes, Dean could get used to this. Unfortunately, the dungeons was just where the Guard lived. Even the families, though they did get entire suites.

Dean sat up on his good elbow and smiled softly down at his friend. His bandaged splint had come off the night before. Dean thought it was hilarious that now one of his arms was tanner than the other. Cas didn’t quite agree, but maybe one day he would be able to look back and laugh.

Dean’s smile faded when he remembered that Cas wouldn’t get a someday. His best friend was a dead man walking.

Dean wasn’t quite sure when Cas had become his best friend, but it was true. Cas was the best friend he’d ever had, including everyone in the Guard. Which not only made Dean the shittiest friend in the world, but the shittiest person, ever, considering just how badly he was going to end up screwing Cas over.

He sat up fully and dropped a hand onto Cas’ head, shaking him gently. Cas groaned and tilted his head up at him, frowning. Dean laughed. Cas was _so_ not a morning person.

“Mornin,’ sunshine,” Dean teased. Cas scowled at him and unfolded his arms, propping them up on Dean’s leg, digging his elbows in uncomfortably. When he sat up, the sun filtering in from the window made it look like he had a halo for a split second.

Dean’s hand was still on his head, and he dropped it, brushing against his scar on the way down. Cas blushed and leaned back, taking his elbows off Dean’s leg.

“Good morning, Dean,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Happy Autumn.”

“Happy Autumn, Cas. Where are you going for the celebration tonight?” It was mandatory for everyone of age to attend some Equinox celebration of some sort. Most children were either taken care of by older siblings or the schools reopened for the night to take care of them.

“Are you even sure you should be going to the celebration?” Cas asked skeptically.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Getting drunk is _not_ required, you know. Just a little tiny blood sacrifice. I think I can swing it.” Besides, injured or no, Dean was needed tonight. Undoubtedly there would be an overflow of drunken crimes committed tonight, and the entire Guard would have to be on high alert. Meg had assured him they would be fine without him on the streets, but still, Dean wanted to be ready for any emergencies.

“I know. You’ve already lost a lot of blood, though, recently.”

“Cas, it’s like, a couple drops. I really think I’ll be fine, though I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

Cas huffed at him. “Well then, I suppose I’ll be here, with you.” Dean smiled slightly. “What about your brother?”

“Nah, actually, the Roadhouse does its own thing.”

Cas nodded, looking down to the floor. He looked up and met Dean’s eyes, looking suddenly conflicted. “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean’s heart beat faster in his chest, dread washing his stomach in cold.

“Do…” Cas looked away from Dean and then back again, a determined set to his mouth. “Do you think you and I could go to the mountains after the sacrifice? I— I have to tell you something.”

_No._

Dean gulped, and his voice came out shaky as he said, “What, in the mountains?”

“No. Well, yes, I could tell you now, but I think it’s best if I show you as well.”

 _No,_ Dean wanted to scream, wanted to tell Cas to keep his mouth shut, for the love of the Angels. Instead he forced himself to nod. “Yeah, sure, we can grab a couple of horses and go up there.”

Cas sighed in relief, a weight seeming to come off his shoulders and settle onto Dean. It seemed Dean had done his job too well for his own liking.

The medic, a blonde woman named Kate, poked her head in the door, a grin plastered on her face. “Dean? You up? Oh, hi, Castiel. I didn’t realize you’d spent the night here.”

“Oh. Yes, my apologies. I suppose I must’ve fallen asleep.”

Kate smirked as she walked in the door. “Mhm. I’m sure.” Both Dean and Cas turned red, and Dean opened his mouth the correct her, but she went on before he had a chance. “Dean, you should be good to go. Remember, though, no heavy lifting for a couple months, try not to hit your head again, and don’t push it, alright? Keep that arm in a sling for another week at least, preferably two, but I know when to pick my battles. When it comes off, don’t go swinging and twisting it around all over the place. With your leg, I’d advise that you just don’t be stretching the muscles in your thigh too much. Think you can remember that?”

Dean nodded solemnly, face still bright red. “Sure thing. I’m really off the hook?”

Kate’s smile didn’t waver. “Take the day off, I’m sure it’ll be a busy night for you.” She nodded at Cas and slipped out the door, the sound of her boots fading slowly down the hallway.

Dean swung his legs off the bed and stood, Cas going with him. “Hey, wanna come forge my signature on a bunch of very serious legal documents?”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Surely that is illegal.”

“Oh, totally. But don’t worry, I won’t arrest us. And no one looks at those anyway, they all just go in a drawer to rot forever.”

“Then why bother signing?”

“Because then no one would take them and I wouldn’t be able to get to my desk through the floor-to-ceiling stacks of paper.” Cas chuckled at that and followed Dean out the door. “Where exactly are we, anyway?” Dean asked. He wasn’t exactly conscious for the trip to his room, and he hadn’t left it since arriving. He was still limping slightly, but Cas simply matched his pace as they made their way down the hallway.

“The East tower. It’s where all the hospital quarters are, for those who work here or can afford the med bay here,” Cas told him. Dean forgot that he used to work here, probably knew his way around better than Dean did.

“Right. And where are the servant’s quarters, again?”

“The West hall.” They came to the narrow spiral staircase that presumably led to the East hall. Cas led the way down. “Where is your office?”

“Well, we gotta stop by my room first so I can change. I’ve been in these damn pajamas for way too long.”

“Where are we going, then?”

“North side. My office is over there, too.” Dean stopped. “Cas, I thought you didn’t like coming into the castle.”

“I don’t,” Cas grumbled. “My tenure here was not exactly pleasant.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“You’ve been hanging out here for like a week.”

Cas fell silent as they descended the last few steps, turning at the bottom and waiting for Dean to join him. They started walking down the hall, heading to the North hall. “You were hurt,” he answered finally. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Dean ignored how his chest warmed at those words. “Yeah, but you still stuck around.”

Cas went quiet again. “If I hadn’t been there, no one else would have been,” he explained softly. He met Dean’s eyes quickly and then looked away. “I didn’t want you to get too bored.”

Dean grinned. Cas looked up at him again and smiled a bit too. “Thanks, Cas.”

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing around the empty halls. Likely everyone was either preparing for the celebration that night or outside, soaking up summer while they could. Soon enough there would be a chill in the air and leaves piling on the streets. Dean wasn’t sure he wanted summer to end, really. Despite death wrapping him like a blanket and fights with dragons, it had been one of the best of his life. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to it.

They reached the stairs to the dungeons, descending in silence. The West side was the prison block where they kept prisoners before trials or drunks who need to be put up for the night. Currently the only person down there was Cole, though Dean was sure it would be bursting by the end of the night.

Dean stopped at the door to his room. It looked like every other door in the hall— heavy, dark wood with a cast iron handle. There was no special treatment when it came to the Captain. Dean’s room was the same as it had been when he’d first joined the Guard, tiny and cold, more like the cells down on the other side of the building than a bedroom. But, it was blissfully his after sharing with Sam his entire life.

“I would invite you in, but I honestly don’t think there’s enough room for both of us in here.” Cas swallowed and nodded, eyes fixed on the door. “Be right back.”

Dean slid in the room and immediately realized that he couldn’t do this. His arm was in a sling.

He’d have to ask Cas for help.

The thought sent shivers down Dean’s spine and a blush to his cheeks. Fuck. Whatever, it was fine. It was fine. Dean took a few deep breaths anyway, because it was not fine at _all,_ and he hated himself and he hated dragons and trees and just shoulders, in general.

Dean threw open the door. Cas was standing in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest. He furrowed his brow when he saw Dean. “You didn’t change.”

“Right. Um. No, I didn’t, because I… can’t.”

Cas frowned. “I don’t under— oh. Your shoulder. Yes, I imagine that would make it very hard to dress.”

Dean huffed, glaring at him. His blush intensified. Dean remembered a time a couple of years ago when fucking Meg had dislocated her shoulder and Dean had had to help her change her shirt, and that hadn’t been nearly as awkward as this already was without Dean even asking for Cas’ help. “I— would you just get in here?”

Cas’ eyebrows popped back up. “You want me to help you?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“It’s not, actually.” Dean glared again. Cas sighed and stepped forward into Dean’s shoebox of a room.

Dean hadn’t actually been too far off in guessing that the two of them would barely fit. The entrance was in the corner of the room— in fact, every corner was occupied. The bed was in one, across from it the door to the bathroom and the dresser next to it. The only free space was between the foot of the bed and the bathroom and the small area next to the bed between the dresser and the door.

Cas did a full sweep of the room before settling his gaze on Dean. He flicked his eyes down his body and then back up, tightening his arms against his chest. Dean sighed. “Seriously, Cas, some help here?”

“Right,” Cas stepped forward as if jolted, freeing his arms. His hands were warm on Dean’s hand, but he paused. “Should I take the sling off first, or—”

“Kinda have to, it’s on over my shirt.”

“Right,” Cas said again, moving his hand from Dean’s to his neck, causing Dean to inhale sharply. Cas was standing _really_ close, close enough for Dean to catch his ink and ozone scent. His fingers stilled and he studied Dean’s face for a second before moving his hands to the back of Dean’s neck to untie the knot there. Dean focused hard on keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling instead of shutting them and sighing deeply. He couldn’t even breathe, Cas was so close. So close that Dean could kiss him if he wanted to, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he _would not,_ despite Crowley’s words from the week before bouncing around in his head, constricting his chest.

Cas got the knot undone and Dean just barely managed to control his breathing. The sling fell away and Dean gently lowered his arm to his side, wincing slightly but biting his lip to keep a whimper in. Who knew that dislocating your shoulder would hurt like a _bitch_?

Cas sighed, meeting Dean’s eyes for half a second before going back to his other arm. He was still torturously close. When Cas tugged on his sleeve, he had to bite his lip to keep from gasping. He dragged his arm up out of the sleeve and Cas pulled the bottom of his shirt up, fingertips brushing against Dean’s stomach and the still-tender scar there. This room had always been tiny, but now it felt entirely too small, compressed to the space between Dean and Cas which was almost nothing at this point, and Dean was standing very, very still.

The shirt came off in one swift movement and Cas dropped it onto the floor. His eyes once more flicked up and down Dean’s body before he turned to the dresser hastily. Only then did Dean close his eyes and let out his breath, quietly as possible. Cas turned back with a red shirt in hand, looking slightly disoriented. Dean could relate.

Cas stepped in once more and picked up Dean’s hand in his own, sliding it up into the shirt and through the sleeve. He pulled it up to Dean’s shoulder and over his head, letting him figure out the other sleeve for himself while he went back to the dresser to dig through the piles of madness to try and find a tunic with the symbol of the Guard on it. He turned to Dean once more, and now that more layers of clothes were being stacked between them instead of being removed, Dean found his breathing came a little easier. He slipped his arm back into the sling while Cas tied the knot around his neck once more.

Once both layers were firmly on, Cas sighed. “Is that all?” he drawled, obviously trying to sound casual, but his voice was slightly breathless, and Dean couldn’t help a smirk, though his chest was caving in, just a bit.

In another life, maybe, Dean could have had him. A life where a soldier bumped into a servant and maybe they fell in love. A life where no one committed any royal theft.

But that was not this life, and Dean could only watch as Cas slipped out of his room without a word, cheeks red. Dean sighed and flopped backwards onto his bed. He closed his eyes for only a second before sitting back up and managing to get his pants on, by himself, because if he might have rather died than ask Cas for help with that. He shoved his pin into a roll of socks and grabbed his boots on his way out the door.

“Alright, let’s roll,” Dean said to Cas, who was leaning against the wall opposite Dean’s room. He nodded and fell into step beside Dean and they walked in silence down the hall until a door on Dean’s right flew open and Charlie stumbled out.

“Angels,” Dean gasped, backing a step into Cas, who glared. “Charlie, what the fuck are you doing?”

Charlie yawned, pulling her tangled red curls away from her face. “Trying to scare away anyone walking down the hallway.”

Dean glared at her. “Okay, well, don’t. And get dressed, you have training soon.”

“You don’t. Asshole.”

“I’m telling Meg to give you extra laps.” Charlie flicked his nose. Dean smacked her hand. “Are you ready for tonight?”

“Really wish I’d have the Equinox off one of these days so I can just let loose, you know,” Charlie said pointedly. Dean sighed. None of them had had much time off recently. He was considering talking to Crowley about expanding the Guard— doubling it, even. The hundred of them just wasn’t cutting it for the entire capital, not without working each and every one of them to the bone.

“Sorry, Charlie. Maybe the Solstice,” Dean assured her, only earning an eye roll in response before she turned and went back into her room. Dean shook his head and continued walking.

“There isn’t much professionalism between you and your guards, is there?” Cas said.

Dean shrugged. “It’s not like that with all of them. I’m really only friends with a couple people— Charlie, Benny, Jo, Kevin, Jody, Donna. Maybe a few more, you just don’t know them.”

“Why make Meg your second if you don’t consider her a friend?”

Dean laughed. “I don’t hate her or anything. She can just be annoying sometimes. I did it because Meg’s the best.” Dean paused and gave a shrug of his good shoulder. “And I may have been accused of favoritism.”

Cas chuckled softly. “I can see that.”

Dean glared at him as he opened the door to his office, sighing at the piles of paperwork he could already see. “Perfect.”

Cas raised his eyebrows at the disaster. “You really should be more organized.”

“ _Wow_ , no one’s ever said _that_ to me before.” Dean offered Cas the chair behind the desk, as he would be doing all the writing. Cas settled into it, immediately pulling a face.

“This chair is very uncomfortable.”

Dean snorted. “Yep. Welcome to the lap of luxury, Cas.”

Cas just shook his head at him as he picked up the nearest piece of paper and studied it. “It must be, if you're receiving invitations to all sorts of balls,” Cas noted. “The Princess of Gold Harbor. Are you inclined to make the trip?”

“Oh, right, yeah, thousands of miles south. I don’t know what these people think I do all damn day that I can just uproot for a couple of weeks to go to one party. Although, last spring there was one thing that Crowley made me go to. I don’t even remember it, honestly.”

“Ssh, Dean, you're distracting me, I’m trying to work.” A smirk tugged at the corner of Cas’ mouth as he tossed the invitation at Dean’s head. He pulled the nearest stack of papers towards himself and read the first one “A request for a raise?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know who the request is from.”

“Yes, I do. Rufus has been asking for a raise since before I was Captain. Say no.”

Cas signed it no and placed it on the floor behind him. He sighed, looking at the piles of paper still left. “Today is going to be a long day.”

Dean hoped so, especially if that night was the night everything would be falling down around them.

Dean leaned against the trunk of a towering oak tree, first and only glass of wine clenched tightly in his fist. He felt like his very bones were shaking, in anticipation and fear, excitement and dread.

As soon as both Dean and Cas had spilled their blood for Autumn, for the protection of the Angels, they would go to the stables and ride into the mountains where Cas had something to show him. Something to tell him.

Dean was very certain that something would be the artifacts and the reason he’d taken them. And he knew what came next.

But at the same time, Dean found he was positively aching to know exactly what had driven Cas to steal from the King. Because at this point, he knew Cas well enough to know that he wouldn’t go around breaking the law without a damn good reason.

He wouldn’t be telling Dean about it unless he trusted him completely to trust _him._ And Dean did, but what Cas could have never guessed was that Dean already knew what he was doing, and so did Crowley. They were trapped already, though Cas didn’t know and Dean couldn’t tell him.

Speaking of, Dean noticed Cas speed walking toward him from the general direction of the garden. He’d wondered where he’d gone, having lost him in the crowd an hour earlier.

Cas sighed as he flopped next to Dean against the tree, swiping the wine from his hand and swallowing it in one gulp. Dean just raised an eyebrow and waited for an explanation to come.

“I was spotted,” he said quietly, “by a former coworker who wanted to chat. I hate him. I hate everything about him and everything that he represents.”

“Which is?”

“Himself.”

Dean outright laughed at that, taking the empty glass back from Cas. “Wow. Alright, do I wanna know?”

“No,” Cas said bluntly, and that was the end of that because just as he spoke, the King stepped up onto the circular, raised, marble platform created exactly for the purpose of Solstice and Equinox celebrations.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, glass of wine held aloft. Cas glared at him openly, and Dean bit down on a snort. “Tonight is an historic night.” Dean caught Cas’ gaze and rolled his eyes. Crowley was one dramatic son of a bitch. “We will spill our blood in order to further ensure the safety of our country. You all know what to do. Circle up.”

Dean seized Cas’ hand and led him towards the dais, where the rest of the party was also headed. Dean would guess there were about five hundred people there, the entire palace staff plus various high-ranking people from around the city. Dean wound up next to Meg, by coincidence or design, he couldn’t tell. She was a bit unpredictable. Cas held hands with someone Dean recognized as the librarian.

On the dais, Crowley raised his arms, and as one, the group burst into the Holy Prayers. Cas’ voice was a soft rumble, almost a whisper. Dean couldn’t tell if Meg was even talking or just mouthing the words.

The Holy Prayers were words that Dean knew by heart but could not for the life of him recite without a chorus of voices saying them along with him. He never really said them outside of the Summer and Winter Solstices and the Spring and Autumn Equinoxes.

After the seventh prayer tapered off, Crowley drew a jewelled knife from his belt. “For the protection of the Angels,” he recited, drawing the knife across his palm. Bright red blood spilled onto the white marble dais.

Crowley looked up, right at Dean. Right. He’d forgotten. He released Meg and Cas’ hands, and they fell in line behind him but did not step onto the dais. Dean accepted the knife from Crowley, whose eyes were boring a hole into the side of his head. Another silent lecture. _Well, won’t he be pleased in the morning_ , Dean thought bitterly as he repeated the plea for protection and let his blood spill onto the marble. He had to hold the knife in his right hand and drag his palm over it instead of the other way around.

Dean moved to stand by Crowley and handed Meg the knife as she stepped up. Once the line really got moving, Dean and Cas would be able to slip away unnoticed. Meg sliced her palm and came to stand by Dean, her face a stony mask. She handed Cas the blade, and he repeated the ritual, Crowley staring at him with disdain the entire time. As soon as Cas handed over the knife to the next person in line, he made eye contact with Dean, who nodded and leaned over to Crowley.

“Your Highness,” he whispered, “I gotta go.”

“This better be constructive, Captain,” Crowley hissed.

“It is,” Dean promised. He didn’t tell Crowley that it would all be over before the morning. He could still hold on to some amount of hope, right? Besides, there was the chance that Dean just didn’t arrest Cas at all.

He was seriously debating it. He wasn’t sure he could do what he needed to do anymore.

Dean sighed and looked at his second. She was watching the line of people move; the pool of blood on the ground was steadily growing. Their own palms were still dripping, as it was part of the ritual that you continue to let your hands bleed.

“Meg,” he whispered. She just raised her eyebrow. “Meg, I need you to man the gates tonight. Just supervise everyone being brought in, make notes of it.”

“Isn’t that _your_ job?”

“I’m delegating. I have other priorities.”

Meg’s eyebrow rose higher, and Dean sighed. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, okay? Just do it.”

“You're the boss,” was all Meg said in response. Dean would take it. He looked over her head, meeting Cas’ eyes once more and jerking his head behind him, off the dais and towards the stables. Cas nodded and stepped backwards, going down a step. Dean copied him and turned, casually trotting down the steps. Cas followed him through a break in the circle, out of the garden.

“So,” Dean started. “What is it, exactly, that you want to show me?”

The last few red-tinted rays of sunlight faded over the mountains, leaving a rosy dusk in their wake. Cas sighed heavily. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“That’s not ominous.”

Cas smirked at him a bit as they came upon the stables. Dean didn’t do much horseback riding— not anymore. In Revelan he practically lived on the back of a horse. His favorite had been a shiny black mare named Baby. Here, he hadn’t had much time for it, so he selected a horse at random, a young chestnut. He led her out of her stable and saddled her up, reading her out of the stables to wait for Cas. Cas came out with a pretty gray stallion. They both mounted, and Cas led the way into the mountains.

The path through the forest was too narrow for them to ride side by side, so they went on in silence, Cas in front. Eventually they went off the path, but the trees were still too thick around them to ride together. Dean’s heart pulsed violently against his chest with every step closer to wherever it was they were going, stomach roiling.

It was an effort to control his breathing, contain his panic. He couldn’t do this to Cas, but did he really have another option? Crowley would want to know where Dean had gone, and what could Dean tell him? Another lie, surely, but it wouldn’t be a good one and Dean was honestly just so tired of lying. Lying to Cas, lying to Sam, even lying to Crowley— though the latter, he didn’t care about that much. Fuck Crowley, honestly.

If it weren’t for Crowley’s threat to Sam, Dean liked to think he might actually say fuck Crowley and join Cas in whatever crazy rebellion scheme he was up to. But it was _Sam,_ for Angels’ sakes. Sam and Jess and their baby. What kind of brother would he be if he shoved them to Crowley’s mercy, all because he’d fallen in love with a criminal?

The thought hit Dean too late. He was in love with Cas, and now here it was, the panic, and the hyperventilating, and Angels in Heaven it was all he could do to keep on his horse. Luckily, Cas didn’t seem to notice.

Dean wasn’t so emotionally repressed that he didn’t realize that he felt… something, for Cas, but this… he’d never been in love before in his life. He loved Sam, loved Bobby, loved Jess and even that tiny baby in her body that he’d never even met. But that kind of familial love was an entirely different bucket of shit than _in love._

This was just Dean’s luck, though. To realize he was in love with someone right before he had to basically condemn him to death. This was great and he didn’t know why he would expect anything else.

It was now the dead of night and though Dean had been in bed now for over a week, he was tired. Cas had to be, too. They’d been on their horses for three, four hours? It seemed like longer. Dean looked up at the stars shining through the canopy of trees, the crescent moon peeking out from behind the leaves. Dean wished for the first time since moving to Lavendel that he’d never left Revelan. It was selfish and stupid, but Dean missed the sea and he never would have had to deal with anything like this in Revelan.

Then again, he had friends here, good friends. And Sam had Jess here. But maybe Dean and Cas both would have been better off never having met.

Dean sighed. He shouldn’t kid himself. He wouldn’t give up this city or this life if given the chance, but even if he would there was no point dwelling on it.

Cas stopped suddenly, though at what Dean couldn’t tell. “Dean,” Cas whispered, though there was no one around. “This way. Hand me the reins to your horse.”

Dean frowned but obeyed, hopping off the mare and leading her forward, towards Cas’ voice. He nearly tripped on a tree root. Cas tied the horses to a low-hanging branch to keep them from wandering.

“Cas, where are we?” Dean asked, also whispering for some reason.

“We’re in the mountains,” Cas explained, taking Dean’s hand. He hid his surprised jolt and just rolled with it.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where we’re going.” Cas started on some twisty path through the trees, and Dean could definitely feel the change in atmosphere now. Why he hadn’t noticed before probably had something to do with his panic over his feelings for Cas, and he blushed remembering it because they were holding hands now for some reason and Dean was in love with him and Cas didn’t even _know_ it.

Cas must have sensed his oncoming panic and mistaken it for discomfort because he squeezed Dean’s hand gently and said, “It’s dark, and you do not know where we’re going, so I thought it best to make sure you don’t get lost.”

Dean squeezed back. “Good plan.”

They walked for another twenty minutes in silence. Dean took calming breaths. Cas would occasionally squeeze his hand— whether to reassure Dean or himself, Dean couldn’t tell— but he appreciated it anyway.

Dean blew out one last breath as Cas pulled him to a stop. So this would be it, then. They would step into what seemed to be a cave and nothing would be the same for either of them again. They’d go down the mountain and return the horses, and then Dean would have to arrest him.

And that would be that. Dean would continue trying to solve a case he already had the answer to but couldn’t succeed and Cas would rot in the dungeons until his trial and then inevitable execution. Sam and Jess would have their baby and Crowley would continue getting up to whatever he was up to while Dean would be too chicken to stop him, all to protect his brother.

They stepped into the cave. Cas dropped Dean’s hand and procured a match, striking it against the rocky wall. He used it to light a torch that Dean had missed, then used that torch to light four others around the cave.

It was small, but breathtaking. The walls were painted, Dean realized as they came into light, solely in gold and silver and bronze paint. As Dean stepped closer, he recognized the story of the Angels, how they’d created the Earth, the sea, the sky, Heaven and the Dead Lands for humanity. Then there were the Nephilim, and for a while everything was sunshine and rainbows, until Lucifer fell and the other Angels chained him to the State of Suffering in the Dead Lands where the only humans he could hurt were the ones that were evil and twisted, just like him.

In the center of the room was a large chest made of simple dark wood, and Dean knew what was in it. The artifacts.

He wanted to puke, but he kept his face neutral as he continued looking around the room. Finally, he turned to Cas, confusion written over his features. “Cas,” he said, “what is this place?”

Cas set the first torch back in its cradle on the wall and sat on the floor against the chest. Dean sat across from him. “A holy place, forgotten over time and consumed by the forest. I believe it was once a silent place for monks to pray without disturbance.”

“What’s in the chest?”

Cas sighed heavily and met Dean’s eyes. “Dean,” he started, voice shaking slightly. Dean forced his face into a frown. “I— I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

Dean’s chest caved in. _Please don’t,_ he thought. _Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t._

“I…” Cas bit his lip. “First, would you promise me something?”

“Anything,” Dean responded promptly.

“What I’m about to tell you… can you promise me not to interrupt, not do anything until I’m done? No matter what I say… I need you to hear me out, please.”

Guilt tore at Dean’s stomach as he responded, “Of course.”

Cas took a steadying breath. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. A year ago, while I was working in the palace, I came across… well, a secret passageway of sorts. It led to an old room I had never seen or heard from before, yet was obviously still in use, as there was little dust to speak of. In the room was six objects: a horn, a crown, an old book, a glowing feather, a ring, and a silver, three-sided sword. I didn’t realize what they were at the time, but I discovered three alternate routes into the room. I didn’t think it was any of my business, so I left and did not try and find it, nor did I stumble upon it again.

“But the objects stayed in my mind, but my understanding of what they were came as an accident as well. I was in the library, mindlessly browsing, when I found a children’s story book. I didn’t know these stories— if my mother read them to me, I don’t remember them. I picked it up and started reading. One of the stories was a legend about a prince who had to defeat an evil dragon, but needed magic to do so.” Cas looked down at his lap and smirked. “Of course, you and I know that magic is unnecessary if you're skilled enough.”

Dean’s smile was forced, but Cas didn’t seem to notice. The funny thing was that Dean had never heard of that story, and he’d read them all to Sam, everything he could get his hands on.

“I was shocked that this story had survived the ban on magic, but I read it anyway. The story described seven objects the prince used to defeat the dragon— the horn of Gabriel, the crown of Adam, only child of Michael and first King of Eureva, the first Book of Prayers, a feather of the Angel of wisdom, Jophiel, Lucifer’s halo, the sword of Michael, and a stone brought back from the Dead Lands. And then I realized what the objects in that room I’d found were. The only thing missing was the stone. But I thought nothing of it— it was none of my business and I figured if there was any safe place for such objects that seemed to have immense power, it was in the palace.”

Dean had promised not to interrupt, but he did now anyway. “Cas, I’ve never heard that story or anything like it in my life.”

Cas frowned. “All the odder, then. I suspect my finding of everything that I’ve found in the past was Angels-guided, as the coincidence of all of it is… too coincidental to be coincidental. If that makes sense.” Dean nodded, and Cas continued, “So I didn’t think on it any more until a few months later, when I was sent to Crowley’s room to retrieve the meal tray he’d requested be sent up that day. When I arrived, he was nowhere to be seen and the guards at his door had been sent away.

“I retrieved the tray, but I heard a voice from behind a tapestry in the corner of the room. Naturally, I stepped forward to listen. The voice belonged to Crowley, and I stood in front of the tapestry and I listened.”

Cas looked back up at Dean, fear in his eyes, and Dean knew that coming up was the part that would condemn him. “Dean, I’m only telling you this because… you don’t like the King. And you said that you and Meg had a common enemy, and you said that enemy was injustice, but… you were talking about Crowley.”

It was both a question and not, and Dean nodded because he was right. Tiny and insignificant as it was, he and Meg were working against Crowley. “I told Meg to start spying on him a couple weeks ago. I don’t trust him, and I wanted to make sure he’s not… up to anything. And we also both completely hate him.”

Cas nodded, letting loose a sigh. “I— good. That’s good. But I was listening at this tapestry, and while I don’t remember exactly what he said, he greeted someone.” Cas looked dead into Dean’s eyes. “Lucifer.”

Chills racked Dean’s body as he closed his eyes. Well, if he was looking for dirt on the King, here it was. The Fallen One himself, chatting with Crowley. And he couldn’t even fucking do anything about it.

“I was shocked, but I kept listening. It seemed I was lucky enough to catch them in their first conversation, because Crowley had a story to tell. Lucifer asked how he had returned from the dead—” Cas nodded at Dean’s wide eyes— “and taken the throne. And so Crowley spoke of one of his own descendants, and therefore a descendant of Lucifer—” Dean’s eyes widened further. His mind was struggling to comprehend everything, but for some reason he kept drawing the conclusion that it couldn’t be true. But it made too much _sense_ not to be true. Dean dropped his head into his hands. His brain hurt, somehow. It wasn’t true. Cas was lying but he _wasn’t_ lying, Dean knew he wasn’t lying and yet—

“I know, Dean. I had the same initial reaction, but if you please keep listening everything will be clear. Please.”

Dean looked up at him and could barely nod. His brain screamed at him, but he nodded.

“A girl named Ruby,” Cas said, picking up where he left off, “she wanted the throne for herself. But her mother had married a human man, and was the last in the bloodline to have magic, though Ruby wanted it. So she sailed across the Boiling Ocean, to the Dead Lands, and found Crowley, her ancestor, Lucifer’s sixth son.” Dean’s headache worsened. “She brought him back successfully, and he was so powerful that he didn’t even need a human body to return to. He killed Ruby because now _he_ wanted the throne.

“He was very crafty about it. He developed a plague— _the_ plague, Dean— a plague that boiled people from the inside out, and he set it loose in Eureva. He got the King and Queen first, and they died, so many died, but then he marched into the palace with a vaccine, a cure and a deterrent to the plague. But the vaccine was magic, Dean. Infused with memory magic. Magic that wiped the minds of everyone that took it, the entire _kingdom,_ into thinking that he was the first child and only child of the dead King and Queen.

“But he missed something. The King and Queen did have one true child, a girl, the Princess. And she had gone missing before Crowley could ensure she was dead, that she’d

taken the vaccine. He never knew if she took it but he looked for her, just in case. Dean, I don’t— I don’t know what he did to her, but he told Lucifer that she had been dealt with. I believe she is dead, but Dean, do you understand now?”

Dean covered his face with his hands. Crowley was supposed to be dead, had died _centuries_ ago. And he was Lucifer’s son. He’d stolen the throne and used magic to mess with all their minds.

Like magic, Dean’s headache was gone as he understood. There was no way around that truth, and he remembered all the little things about Crowley that had never added up — his accent, for one thing, was unlike any that Dean had ever heard before, an ancient, faded out one, no doubt. And—

“We talked,” Dean said, “about the Royal family. The Campbells. And I realized that I’d never heard that name and I thought maybe we could look up the Royal family tree, but then something distracted me.”

Cas nodded. “Yes. The magic is… complicated. Sometimes I forget, too. I think I forgot that day. You— you believe me?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, momentarily forgetting about the rest of the story that was sure to come. “It— it makes sense. Holy _fuck.”_

Cas sighed in relief. “Indeed. It gets worse, Dean, I assure you. You are very much not going to like this.”

“Awesome.”

That got a breathy laugh out of Cas. Still no smile, Dean realized. He’d never gotten a real smile out of him, and now he never would. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face from betraying his grief over that.

“Then, Crowley told Lucifer that he’d gathered six of the seven artifacts, objects blessed by Michael and given to humanity as gifts to protect themselves. The only thing he was missing was the stone. And Lucifer asked him what he planned to do with it.

“It was the first I’d heard him speak, and his voice was… terrifying. I wanted to puke, but I held it in, at least until after the conversation was over. But Crowley… he planned to use the artifacts to raise the dead, call the Demons in the Dead Lands here, to bring Lucifer out of his chains.” Dean wanted to puke now. Cas took a deep breath. “Obviously I was not about to let that happen. So, I…” Cas bit his lip but looked up and met Dean’s eyes. “I resigned, and then I went back to that room. Then, I stole one of the artifacts, Lucifer’s halo.”

Dean forced his face into surprise and sucked in a breath, but Cas held up his hands. “Dean, you promised to listen.” So Dean hesitated, and then he swallowed his breath, nodding, pretending to look conflicted. It wasn’t hard, he was currently very conflicted.

“But I didn’t know what to do, so I went underground, underneath the castle until I reached a staircase. I came to the top and realized I was in the mountains. Then I found this place, this chest, and something about it was comforting to me. Crowley has magic, of course; he’s Nephilim. I had no doubt he would not only be able to tell that the halo was gone, but also would be able to track it down, like he had tracked down every Celestial. But this place… something about it is protected, because Crowley has not yet found it. I’ve been back three times. I stole the halo,” Cas admitted, counting off on his fingers, “the horn of Gabriel, Adam’s crown, and Jophiel’s feather. I don’t think Crowley has noticed yet, as surely you would know, right?”

Dean felt sick to his stomach, but he nodded. “No, he can’t know,” Dean whispered.

“No, he can’t. And I think that’s what he’s looking for, in the mountains, in the forest. The final artifact, the stone. But Crowley’s search for it must have angered the Earth— the shift, he began pillaging instead of taking what was needed. The Earth was angered and reached out to the Celestials— regardless of what powers we possess, we are more connected to the Earth than any human. But because we can’t use our powers to do the Earth’s will, it drove those who were chosen mad.”

Cas watched Dean for a moment, studying his face, his hunches shoulders. “I—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, slowly raising his head. “Cas, that’s, like, super illegal. Me sitting here not arresting you is super illegal.”

Cas looked down. “I know. But I’m not really worried about the law when the King wants to flood the Earth with evil, Dean.”

Dean buried his face in his hands as he shook his head, and he felt nothing, _nothing_ in his soul as he lied and he lied and he lied. “Cas, why the _fuck_ are you telling me this?”

“I need your help, Dean. We— I— need to either kill Crowley or secure all seven artifacts, and I can’t do it alone. You're the Captain of the Guard. If anyone could get away with this, you could.” Dean looked up and held Cas’ gaze for several tense seconds. “I understand how dangerous it is, Dean, but I need your help. This is the world we’re talking about.”

Dean closed his eyes. An act, an act, it was all an act. It had always been just an act because how could he have any real feelings in his dead, empty soul? He would be written on the wrong side of history, Cas as the martyr, assuming someone else stepped up to save the world, but it couldn’t be Dean.

He’d made his bed.

He loved Cas, but that just… wasn’t enough to risk Sam. The entire damn planet wasn’t enough for him to risk Sam. If he stayed close to Crowley, his family might be protected in this oncoming apocalypse.

Cas was right. This was dangerous, and Dean was afraid. And a coward.

“I don’t know,” Dean finally said, keeping up his facade. “But I… I’ll think about it.”

Cas sighed. “That’s fair enough. Should we go back now?”

Dean nodded and they fell into silence once more as Cas grabbed his hand, led them out of the cave, back to the horses. Dean said nothing, thought nothing, as they descended the mountain and went through the forest back to the stables.

They reached the palace gates. Meg was still standing there, though the sun was making its way up.

“Cas,” he said. “Wait here a sec.”

He couldn’t do it.

He jogged over to Meg, who blinked at him, tired. “Wassup, Captain?”

“Meg,” he said. “I have to arrest Cas.”

Meg blinked at him again. “Why?”

“I swear I’ll explain once he’s incarcerated, okay? But I’m gonna arrest him, but please, I need you to take him in. Get him to a completely empty block, okay? Make sure the guards there know to take care of him.”

“Dean, what—”

“Meg, please. You take him in and then meet me in Crowley’s room, okay?”

Meg huffed at him but nodded and gestured for one of the guards at the gate to open it up. Dean walked back to Cas on weak legs.

The thief frowned at him. “Dean—”

“Cas,” the Captain interrupted, “you're under arrest.”

 


	2. A Different Man

**Part Two: A Different Man**

 

_Just gonna have to be a different man_

_Time may change me_

_But I can't trace time_

 

_Changes - David Bowie_

 

Castiel betrayed no emotion, no expression, as Dean used his one good hand to link his wrists together. He didn’t struggle— even injured, Dean Winchester would have him beat in seconds. Besides, Castiel didn’t want to fight him.

He’d taken a risk in exposing himself to Dean, and he’d been well aware of it. But he’d truly trusted him. Perhaps he’d been so blinded by his own feelings for the Captain that he hadn’t taken the time to consider that his trust may have been misplaced.

He wasn’t angry, though Dean shoving him off to Meg felt like a stab of betrayal. Were their positions reversed, he might have done the same.

He was lying to himself, of course. But Castiel was a fool, and all fools have is hope. He could hope that this was part of a grand scheme Dean had cooked up, and he could hope that Dean had valid reasons to do this outside of his job, or that— Castiel swallowed a lump in his throat— he’d been in it with Crowley the entire time. For weeks now he’d hoped there was a possibility that Dean returned his feelings.

Meg said nothing as she led him down the stairs to an empty cell block and an ice-cold jail. Dean had not followed them. Castiel didn’t think about where he was going.

Meg locked the cell door. She hesitated. “Dean told me to take care of you,” she said. Castiel wished she hadn’t. “But, uh. There are no guards in this block. Which is probably a good thing, so now I can assign some good people. I don’t know what you did, but don’t admit to anything. I’ll go talk to Dean, and then I’ll be back to question you and stuff.”

Castiel said nothing. Meg studied his face for a moment and then left, leaving him alone in that cold, damp cell.

He sat against the wall, and maybe it was foolish, but he hoped.

 

 

Dean’s face was stony as he stalked up the stairs to Crowley’s room. He wouldn’t be up yet, but Dean was going anyway. He had to meet with Eileen about Lawrence. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He didn’t need any more info dumps today, thank you, but he’d already been unconscious for their original meeting and he didn’t want to be any more of a douchebag than he already was for today. He’d maxed out the quota.

So he stormed into Crowley’s room, the guards at the doors peeking in after him cautiously, but Dean just stood at the foot of the King’s bed with his arms crossed.

Crowley sat up and glared. His hair was ruffled and he seemed to be wearing a _nightgown._ Prissy bitch. “Winchester,” he grumbled, and his accent only served to piss Dean off more. “You better have a damn good reason for waking me up this early.”

“I arrested Cas,” he said bluntly. “Meg took him to the cell block. I’ll take a team in later to get all your stuff from where he hid it.”

Crowley grinned. “Excellent. Tell me, why did he do it?”

Dean huffed, and the lie came easily, without a second thought. “Exactly like you guessed. Wanted to rule the world or some shit.”

“I suppose that’s why you're in an especially rude and disrespectful mood this morning? Had to lock up your boyfriend?”

Dean would actually really, really like to punch him right in the nose. “I’m giving the case to Meg. She can handle interrogations and everything.”

“You’ll testify at the trial.”

“Of course.”

“Then away with you. I’d like those artifacts brought to my room by the end of the day, Winchester.”

Dean didn’t bother with a formal goodbye as he spun on his heel and left the room. He barrelled down the stairs and nearly collided with Meg on her way up.

“Dean—”

“Follow me, Meg, I don’t have a ton of time,” Dean said, walking past her back towards the dungeons and his office. Meg huffed at him and scrambled to keep up. She looked pissed at him, which was understandable. Dean was pissed at Dean, too.

He stepped into his office and let Meg in before slamming the door and flopping in his chair. He waved his good hand at her. “Report.”

“Report what? What happened in the last five minutes? Why don’t _you_ report?”

“‘Cause I’m the boss and you're not.”

Meg glared at him so intensely that Dean felt his face might fall off. “You're an asshole. But fine. I took Cas to cell block E. There are no guards there. He didn’t say anything the entire time, didn’t fight or anything. Happy?”

“What’d you say to him?”

“I told him that you told me to take care of him, not to admit to anything, and that I’d be back after I talked to you.”

Dean sighed in relief. “Okay. I’m assigning Charlie and Kevin to the cell block.”

“They’re not Royal guard.”

“They are now. Trade me who the fuck ever, I don’t care.”

“I’m giving you my least favorite people.”

“I don’t care.” Dean sighed and met Meg’s eyes before gesturing at the chair for her to sit down. “I’m gonna tell you what to write down.”

“Not the truth?”

“There is no truth,” Dean answered. He was just trying to do what little he could to spare Cas from Crowley’s wrath. If Crowley knew what Cas knew, what _Dean_ knew… Angels save them all. “Cas was stealing artifacts from Crowley, so he sent me undercover to figure out where Cas was hiding them. He was taking them because they’re magic and he wanted to rule the world or whatever. So when we got back I arrested him. End of story.”

“You're lying.”

“Prove it,” Dean challenged. Meg’s glare intensified. “You have my statement. Go interrogate Cas. This is your case now.”

“Dean, I’m gonna need a little more than—”

“Then go talk to Cas. Talk to Crowley. I have things to do, Meg. I won’t be at training today, and neither will Benny or Victor.”

Meg shoved out of her chair, knocking it over. Dean didn’t care. “Have fun signing all your paperwork with your left hand, Dean. It’ll be here soon, don’t worry.” She slammed the door open and left it that way. Dean didn’t care.

 

 

Castiel couldn’t sleep, which turned out to be a blessing, as Meg returned far sooner than he’d expected. She didn’t let him out of the cell, just sat on the ground in front of the bars and rolled open a sheet of paper.

“So,” she started. “Our incredibly vague friend Dean told me that you stole Crowley’s trinkets or whatever because you wanted to use the magic and rule the world.”

Castiel didn’t answer that right away. That wasn’t the truth. That wasn’t even remotely what he’d—

_Dean told me to take care of you._

It seemed Dean was protecting Castiel in his own way. This had to be a good thing, Dean keeping the truth hidden.

Perhaps it was for his own benefit. If Crowley suspected that Dean believed Castiel, he’d slaughter him without a second thought.

Either way, this was good news. “…Yes. That is why.”

Meg snorted. “You're an awful liar.” Castiel said nothing. Meg sighed and pressed her forehead against the bars. “Listen, Castiel, I’m gonna be straight with you here. Dean knew what you did the entire time, okay? He was on a mission from Crowley. He was undercover.”

Castiel sat up at that, eyes widening.

Dean had broken his fucking wrist on purpose.

But beyond that, everything he knew, everything Dean had done, was just a lie, an act, and the real Dean Winchester… Castiel didn’t know him at all. He hadn’t even considered that Dean might have already known. The Captain had done his job well.

“But, hey, listen. The guy you know, that’s Dean, I swear. It pains me to say this, trust me, but that charming, funny, protective asshole is Dean. He’s a big dope who loves his brother and works really damn hard and is generally a nice guy, I swear to the Angels, Cas. And he cared about you. I swear it. I don’t have any reasons to lie to you.”

Cas relaxed slightly. Still, Dean had known that this was where they were to end up the entire time.

“That being said, he’s also a prissy bitch with mood swings. I know you didn’t steal those artifacts to take over the world.”

Cas opened his mouth to protest, but Meg held up a silencing hand. “Dean and I aren’t friends, Castiel. Sometimes I hate him. Today, I hate him a lot. But he’s my boss, and before he told me to do this, he gave me a mission to dig up as much dirt on Crowley as possible, and I know you have some, so spill.”

Castiel hesitated. Dean had told him once that Meg was the most trustworthy person in the palace besides him. But Dean hadn’t turned out to be very trustworthy at all. By default, Castiel would have to be absolutely stupid to trust Meg, then. He clamped his mouth shut.

Meg huffed. “Fine. But while we’re still off the record? Whatever it is, Dean’s on your side, even if everything he does seems like the opposite, okay? And this is killing him, but he believed whatever it was you told him. I wouldn’t put it past Crowley for a second to have threatened Dean’s family the second he realized that Dean might not be totally on his side. And Dean doesn’t take any chances with Sam.”

Castiel still did not open his mouth. He would stick with Dean’s lie. He was going to be hung anyway. If Dean wanted to save the world, he knew how, and he was the one not in a jail cell. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing an interrogation?”

Meg looked down at her scroll and wrote something on it. “Fine. How did you know about the artifacts?”

“How much did Dean know about me?” Castiel didn’t mean to ask— it just slipped out.

Meg sighed. “Today is the first time I’ve heard anything about your entire case. I have no idea. And Dean’s in a mood so he won’t tell me anything.”

“Maybe you should come back with more information.”

Meg smirked slightly. “Give you more time to cook up a scheme? Fine. But when I get back, everything’s on record. You're a psycho who wants to take over the world, and I’m a soldier intent on getting answers. The guards will be here by then.”

“Goodbye, Meg.”

“Mhm.” Meg hauled herself up using one of the bars to the cage and waved to Castiel as she walked out.

Castiel sighed and flopped back onto the bed. Meg’s visit had both reassured and unnerved him. Dean had known who he was the whole time, yet Meg claimed he had been entirely himself, save for a few lies. Big lies, but still few. Really, there was only the one lie. But how could Castiel believe that?

Maybe Dean was planning on stopping Crowley but worried he was listening to every conversation in the palace. Or maybe he didn’t fully trust Meg. Dean really _did_ mistrust Crowley, though. He’d had Meg spying. Maybe Dean had only done this to protect Sam, as Meg had said. Maybe he had no grand plan other than saving his brother.

Castiel had to have faith that Dean had his reasons. And if he didn’t, well. He was still dead either way.

He wondered if it was true that Dean really did care for him. He wanted it to be true, but maybe Dean was a better actor than Meg gave him credit for.

Castiel wished he could talk to Dean. There were too many possibilities flying around his head and for once, he would just like the truth.

 

 

Eileen looked nervous when Dean met her that morning in the Royal Garden. They wouldn’t talk there— couldn’t talk there— but it was where they’d agreed to meet.

Dean tried his best to act like he hadn’t just ruined his own life, was running on no sleep, and considering mutiny, but it was hard and Eileen looked concerned as they made their way to Cas’ apartment. News of his arrest hadn’t gotten out yet and wouldn’t get out. Dean would clear the place out on his own, in the dead of night so no one saw, and eventually Krissy or whoever actually owned the building would sell it.

It was kind of depressing to be there without Cas. His books were still shoved against the wall, the shelves still stocked with food. The stone oven in the corner looked cold, and atop it was the stack of papers Dean had seen the day he’d come unexpectedly. Cas was probably planning on showing them to Dean if he’d agreed to help.

Dean made a point not to look at them as he sat on the sofa-bed. Eileen sat across from him.

He blew out a breath. “So,” he said, once he was sure she was watching his mouth. “Lawrence.” Eileen flicked her eyes up to meet Dean’s for a second before dropping back to his lips, silent permission to keep talking. “I know you're from there.” Eileen’s eyes widened and she made to stand, but Dean put a hand on her shoulder. “Eileen. Eileen! Calm down, I’m from Lawrence too.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but sat back down.

Dean sucked in a breath and told her everything, even the nitty gritty details he hadn’t even shared with Cas, about his Dad and hearing his mother scream, how he’d outrun it all, the smoke and the flame and the death.

“Sam doesn’t know,” Dean finished. “Bobby, the guy who adopted us, told me never to talk about it. He thought something was fishy about the whole thing and he was right. He’s gotta be right, that fire… you're too young to remember it, I bet, but there was nothing natural about it.”

Eileen stared at him in disbelief. “That’s amazing, that you got out.”

Dean nodded absently. “Your go. How’d you and your mom make it out?”

Eileen sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“You’d never believe me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Eileen studied him for a long moment, her brown eyes wary, thoughtful. “I really would. I’ll tell you. You’ll think I’m crazy, but you can decide.”

Dean frowned, but let her speak.

“The King started the fire. On purpose.” Eileen watched for Dean’s reaction, but he had none. Of fucking course Crowley started the fire. Of course Crowley killed his parents. What hadn’t Crowley done to ruin Dean’s life? “He started it to kill a young woman, the Princess. His sister, I suppose, my mother never specified.”

Huh. So that was what happened to the Princess Cas had talked about. Crowley had burned her and a whole city alive. Though, she wasn’t his sister.

Eileen continued, “I don’t know how he found her, but he did. When the last King and Queen died, she was sent into quarantine with my mother, who was her handmaiden. They didn’t trust Crowley or his cure, so they ran away to Lawrence. The Princess married and had two children. My mother had me and stayed close by. Together, they decided their children weren’t worth risking in order to try and reclaim the throne. Crowley was too dangerous for them to take on, and because of the mind-wiping vaccine, no one would help them, no one would believe them. When the fire started, my mother knew what it was and took me and ran away. She walked to Lavendel.” Eileen studied Dean once more. “You don’t look very shocked.”

“I’m not,” Dean admitted. “I already knew about the Princess and the vaccine. Didn’t know that Crowley started that fire, though. Didn’t know he killed my parents. That’s new. Oh, by the way, Crowley wasn’t her brother, he’s actually the son of Lucifer and has been dead for a while but someone brought him back. So there’s that, too.”

“Dean,” Eileen said softly, disregarding the last part of Dean’s response. “There’s something else.”

“Fire away,” Dean said blandly.

“Before my mother died… she told me the name of the Princess. And she told me that there were other survivors. Her children. She told me to find them.”

Dean’s head snapped forward. “Who was she? Where are her kids?”

Something clicked into place before Eileen even opened her mouth. He remembered. He remembered his mother joking with his father while she was pregnant with Sam.

_“Strong kick,” she said. “I bet it’s a girl. Campbell women are surprisingly strong.”_

_“Well,” his father had answered, “so are Winchester men.”_

Campbell. Like—

_“That’s why the Royal name changed to Campbell, when she married.”_

Campbell, like the Royal name. Like his mother’s maiden name. A Princess in Lawrence with two children who had survived the fire, like his mother in Lawrence with two children who survived the fire. And Eileen, sent to find the true heirs to the throne, and Eileen, working for Sam.

“Oh,” Dean whispered. “Well. That is news.”

Eileen bit her lip as she watched him process. “I wasn’t sure if you would believe me, that’s why I never told Sam.”

Dean covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. “Yeah, he definitely wouldn’t have believed you,” he said, drawing his hands away from his face.

Eileen frowned. “What?”

“What? Oh, sorry. Sam definitely wouldn't have believed you. Just— shit. I need another minute.”

Eileen nodded, understanding. Dean stared at the wall over her shoulder blankly, lost in thought. His mother had been the Princess. Of the entire country. But now she was dead and Dean was her oldest son which… which made him the King.

Dean was the King.

Or he should be. Except Crowley had fucked around in everyone’s brain and killed his mother and father, and now no one would ever know the truth.

Rage filled every one of Dean’s bones, nearly blinding him. Crowley had taken _everything_ from him. His parents, his grandparents, his home, his throne, Cas. Dean didn’t even want to be King, but it was his _birthright._

This was it. Dean had had _enough_ of Crowley _._ First, he’d just been a general douche and Dean hated him. Then, he’d turned his back on people in need and refused his help. He was the son of _Lucifer,_ for Angel’s sake, wasn’t even supposed to be alive. He’d set loose a plague on Dean’s people that had wiped out a massive chunk of the population and then wiped the rest of their minds! He’d burned Dean’s parents alive, along with a whole city just for kicks. He’d slaughtered and mutilated countless Celestials, ripped their power away from them for no good reason, and it was his fault now that they were going insane and murdering people. He was killing the forest and the mountains. He’d threatened Dean’s family.

And Cas. Crowley was going to kill Cas.

Just as suddenly as the rage had come, it melted away into cool, steely determination. Yes, he should have been King, but instead, he was a warrior. A general. Captain. And if there was one thing he did well, it was making a plan, a battle strategy.

Dean no longer felt bad about arresting Cas, and later that day he wouldn’t feel bad about delivering the chest of artifacts right to Crowley. Dean was going to let him think he’d won before ruining everything for him.

It was only fair.

 

 

Meg returned to Castiel’s cell at the end of the day. Castiel recognized his new guard at the door— she did not seem happy about her position. He recognized her as Charlie, who’d been there after Dean’s surgery.

“I thought you were part of the City Guard?” Castiel had asked when she’d arrived.

Charlie huffed at him. “Your boyfriend’s an overprotective bitch,” was all she said in response.

“Dean is not my boyfriend.” Castiel felt the need to clarify, though the fact that they were sitting on opposite sides of a set of irons bars made that painfully obvious.

“Whatever, he’s still an overprotective bitch.” Charlie was silent for a moment. “By the way, I think you're both full of shit about this whole thing. We all do. But we’re keeping our traps shut about it, ‘cause we all like Dean better than we like Crowley.”

Dean would have made an _excellent_ ally in Castiel’s crusade to bring down the King, not that this was the first time he was realizing this. It was why he’d befriended Dean in the first place. He was close to Crowley and the Guard. It was likely over half the country liked him increasingly more than they liked the false King. He’d done so much for every single one of them without so much as a second thought.

Surely, then, he would try and save them?

Castiel continued to go around and around, trying to get at what in the Dead Lands Dean was up to, but it seemed that none of them knew the Captain as well as they thought they did.

Meg and Charlie nodded politely at one another when the Captain’s second came in. Castiel had to strain to listen to their conversation.

“Meg, what’s going on?” Charlie asked in a low voice.

Meg sighed. “Dean, Benny, and Victor got the artifacts back, and I’m finally all caught up on what’s up with this guy,” Meg reported with a jerk of her head towards Castiel.

“I’m not.”

“Well, Dean told me to tell you that you have to go to his room tonight to help him change his shirt.”

Charlie groaned. “I have half a mind to just get a pair of scissors and cut it off. He’s totally full of it, right?”

Meg looked to the ceiling and shook her head. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I trust the meathead to know what he’s doing. But if he doesn’t let me in on it soon I’m gonna beat it out of him.” Castiel believed it. “Anyway. Kevin’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Sweet, night off.”

Once again, when Meg approached Castiel’s cell, she sat cross-legged in front of it. “Alright, Castiel, let’s begin. How did you discover the artifacts?”

Dean had once told Castiel that he was an awful liar. Meg had said it earlier, and Castiel knew it was true. So he wasn’t going to lie.

“Did you learn anything, while performing Dean’s secret mission for you?”

Charlie whipped her head around. Meg just blinked at him. “That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s not what _I_ asked,” Castiel countered.

The corner of Meg’s mouth twitched up. “You know, if you don’t want to answer the question, you could just not answer the question.”

“Perhaps.” Truthfully, Castiel hadn’t thought of that. Plus, this was more clever and there was a slim chance Meg would answer.

“The artifacts. How did you know about them?”

“How long has it been since anyone was incarcerated in this cell block?”

Meg set her jaw and nearly growled at him. “Maybe Dean wasn’t lying. Maybe you are psycho.”

“Did you know that—”

Meg stood. “You get that you're not protecting yourself, right? You're gonna go to trial and they’re going to hang you, especially if you pull shit like this.”

“And what does answering your questions get me? A cupcake, and _then_ hanged?”

Meg glared at Castiel. Castiel glared back until she spun on her heel and stormed out of the block.

Charlie giggled. “That was a nice one.”

Castiel didn’t even lift his head. “Thank you.”

The redhead was silent for a few moments. “You know,” she said, “I joined the Guard to go out there and help people. Save lives. And Dean shoved me in here to watch over a prisoner who probably isn’t even going to try and escape. I’m one of the _best._ I can’t— I’m not sure if I can trust him on this one. I don’t know if he’s trying to get the good guys out of his way, or trying to protect his friends from the bad guys.”

Castiel sighed at the ceiling. “I don’t know, either.”

“Care to share the truth with me, over here, then? About why you did it?”

Castiel turned his head to her. She was leaning against the door with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

He really couldn’t trust anyone in this castle.

“Do you think there are such things as unicorns?”

 

 

Castiel had been incarcerated three days when he felt it, deep in his bones. Charlie seemed unbothered, but Castiel knew, somewhere in his soul, that he’d failed.

Crowley had all seven artifacts.

He didn’t know how long it would take now, how long any of them had left. He didn’t know how powerful they were or what Crowley needed to do to use them to bring Demons to their mortal plane, but Castiel’s very bones told him it was over.

For the three members of the Guard that Castiel saw on a daily basis, though, life seemed to remain the same. Sometimes he caught snippets of gossip, though the only thing he heard that interested him was news of Dean. It seemed the Captain had been strangely absent, and very, very tired.

Castiel still couldn’t decide if Dean was working for Crowley or against him. It was driving him mad.

When Meg came that day, the day that began the end of the world, Castiel said nothing. He would continue to say nothing until the day he was hanged.

There was no point, and even a fool would be foolish to hope at this point.

 

 

A week after Crowley retrieved the stone, Castiel still had not spoken, but nothing has changed. He began to think that maybe he would be dead before the end of the world.

He’d lost track of night and day, but he thought it was night when he received a new visitor.

A deep sigh at the door. “Oh, Kev, you may be brilliant, but you _suck_ at staying awake.”

Castiel sat bolt upright, his very blood freezing in his chest. _Dean_. Dean was here to see him.

The Captain stepped into the small torchlight bathing Castiel’s cell. He was not wearing his uniform. In fact, he seemed to be in pajamas and his arm was out of the sling. Castiel could only gape as Dean grinned at him nervously.

“Dean,” he rasped before Dean could say anything. “What are you doing here?”

Dean’s smile shifted into a frown. “Do you need water or something?” he asked, stepping forward to sit in front of the bars of Castiel’s cage, his legs splayed out in front of him. The torchlight defined his profile, making him look soft and vulnerable.

“I haven’t been speaking much,” Castiel replied warily. Dean did not seem to be leaving anytime soon, and Castiel wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that.

Dean nodded and tilted his head back, letting it hit the rough stone wall with a soft _thump._ “Hey, Cas?”

Castiel’s mouth twitched at the nickname. Despite himself, he’d missed Dean. “Yes?”

“I want you to know that I actually did break your wrist on purpose.”

Castiel almost smiled at that, but the harsh reality of the iron bars between them stopped him. “I figured.”

“I really am sorry about it, though.”

Cas sighed. “Of course you are. I don’t suppose you could be a regular spy and make it easy for me to hate you, could you?”

“I don’t suppose you could be a regular criminal and make it easy for _me_ to hate _you?”_

“You don’t hate me?”

Dean turned his head back towards Castiel, eyes dark yet shining. “‘Course not. I actually…” Dean trailed off, and Castiel tried not to let himself imagine what the end of that sentence might have been. “I believe you, you know. About everything. But I couldn’t risk Crowley hurting my brother, hurting Jess and the baby. I just couldn’t.”

Castiel nearly sighed in relief. Dean was not hopeless after all, then. Just a coward.

“So you're willing to live and work under a dictator, a child of the Devil himself?” Castiel was not angry or malicious, just dry and empty.

“There’s every chance I’ll be dead by the time he decides to get his ass in gear, bringing all the Demons over here.”

“That’s a very noble stance, Dean.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel shook his head bitterly, but when he looked back up at Dean there was a glint in the Captain’s eyes that could have been a trick of the firelight but Castiel hoped meant something different.

“Your trial is in two weeks,” Dean reminded him. Castiel closed his eyes for a moment.

“I don’t suppose I’ll see you again before then?”

“Why?” Dean grinned and Castiel could have cried at the familiar sight. “Miss me?”

“Very much,” Castiel blurted out without meaning to.

Dean’s smile fell and he looked down. “Yeah, I bet you did. You're kind of a dumbass like that.”

Castiel huffed at him, though it was true. By all accounts, he should have been spending the past week and a half plotting Dean’s murder. “They’re going to execute me,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“You’ll have to bear witness.”

“I know.”

Castiel paused. “I’m sorry.” He knew the toll it took on Dean to watch people die, and… Castiel had been his friend, at least to some degree. Even after Dean had betrayed him, Castiel knew that if their positions were reversed, it would kill him to watch Dean die.

“Don’t be. You're the one who was bold enough to do the right thing. I was— I _am_ — too afraid.”

“I understand, Dean. The choice was me or your family. I would have done the same thing.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

Castiel studied the Captain, the hard set to his shoulders and the way his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. “No. But I am not you.”

“Thank the Angels for that.” Dean closed his eyes and blew out a breath of air. “I should go.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Crowley doesn’t care what I do, as long as I don’t stir up trouble.”

“Still, people will talk. Your reputation—”

“Who gives a damn about my reputation? It’s down the drain already.”

Castiel sighed. “I find that very hard to believe. This country is indebted to you, Dean. It would take a lot to make these people hate you.”

Dean turned his head to look at him. It was all Castiel could do to keep from going to him, reaching out through the bars. Everything was different, now, and not only because Castiel was locked in a jail cell. Dean had broken his trust, and it would not be so easily won back.

“Maybe you're right,” Dean said finally. “Cas, I want you to know that there are a lot of things I wish I could say, but not here, not now.” Castiel’s heart missed a beat, but Dean went on before he could interrupt. “But… the deaths have stopped. The Celestials aren’t dying anymore. I don’t know what that means, but it’s either really good or really bad.”

“When was the last death?” Castiel asked, gut sinking. If the deaths had stopped because Crowley had found the stone… it meant that even the forest had given up.

“The last one,” Dean answered. “There’s been nothing since before the Equinox.”

Castiel frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dean sat up straight, folding his legs under him. “I think it does.”

“How?”

Dean just smirked. “Spoilers, Cas.” He reached up and wrapped his left hand around a bar and pulled himself to his feet. “And, um. For the record, I miss you, too.”

Dean was gone before Castiel could formulate a response.

 

 

When Castiel woke the next morning, unsure if he’d dreamed Dean’s visit or not, the guard at the door was neither Kevin nor Charlie. Castiel didn’t recognize him.

He was too tired to bother trying to figure out _who_ and _why_ and _what,_ so he went back to sleep. If something significant was happening, it wasn’t as if Castiel could do anything about it. Why bother even caring?

He convinced himself that Dean’s visit was a dream. It was too perfect to be true.

Meg continued to come and try to interrogate him. Castiel continued to ignore her. Sometimes she didn’t even bother.

“You know, I may be a stone cold bitch,” she started one day, when she hadn’t even bothered to bring her paper and ink. Castiel was sure she only showed up because she had to and decided to rant to him. “But I do have, like, actual feelings, wildly enough. Not that anyone cares.”

Castiel didn’t know what she was talking about, and Meg seemed to understand that he wasn’t really listening. Sometimes talking to another person was comfort enough, and if Meg spilled anything crucial, well, Castiel would just have to take it to the grave.

“You know, Dean and I went through training together, and I totally thought he was gonna be this sexist prick, you know? The first time we sparred, I was totally ready for him to make a joke about going easy on me or something. He didn’t, otherwise he probably wouldn’t be alive today. He did kick my ass, though, and the only thing he said to me afterwards was that I should do less punching and more kicking. He’s an infuriatingly nice guy. It pisses me off.

“The Captain back then _was_ sexist, though. Jody and Donna were the first women to ever join the Guard, a few years before me and Charlie. And that bastard came up with some bullshit saying that the four of us were underperforming or whatever and that the only way we could keep our jobs was to beat Dean in a fight.

“And, like, seriously? Top of his game, he couldn’t even beat Dean, but he made us do it. No one else, just the women. Dean refused. He said that we were doing just as well as or better than everyone else and this whole thing was bullshit, so the Captain said okay, I’ll fight them.” Meg grinned. “We all kicked his ass. It was great. I really hope the fact that I’m Dean’s second keeps him up at night, because he knows it’s because I’m good at my fucking job and not because Dean likes me in any way. Which is kind of sad because he’s my only friend, and even I hate him half the time.”

Castiel kind of liked Meg’s stories, even if he didn’t pay attention to most of them. They were entertaining, and his only human contact, though he never responded.

Charlie and Kevin did not return to guard his cell. He hoped they were back to their real jobs, even if he preferred their presence to these new, sullen, unfamiliar guards. Dean didn’t come back, either, in reality or in his dreams.

He’d failed. It didn’t hit him until the night before his trial, but he’d failed. The world was going to end because Castiel had fallen in love with a coward.

He was angry, suddenly, for the first time since his arrest, angry at Dean. If he did truly believe Castiel, then what in the Angels did he think he was doing? Did he think sparing Sam from Crowley’s potential wrath now would save him from the apocalypse?

A coward. Dean Winchester was a lazy coward, though Castiel had to give him props for fooling everyone into thinking otherwise.

The room shook.

The guard at the door straightened, looking up to the ceiling. Castiel copied him. There seemed to be a stampede of sorts in the castle above them, though what on Earth would be big enough to shake the structure to its basement, Castiel had no clue.

The guard glanced at him, decided he wasn’t capable of any funny business, and left the room, making sure to snag the set of keys hanging from the wall as well.

Castiel sighed. He didn’t really care what it was, but he hoped it had woken the King and was giving him buckets of trouble. It did occur to him that the stampede was Crowley’s Demon army and maybe he wouldn’t be able to skip out on the apocalypse after all, but somehow he doubted it. He would feel it if Demons were storming the mortal plane.

It may have been hours or it may have been minutes after the guard left, but Castiel heard a noise right outside his cell block that had him out of his bed, fists clenched. If a Demon wanted to come and kill him in his sleep, Castiel would put up one last fight, though most of his muscles had atrophied over the course of his incarceration.

The noise was followed by another bang, this time on the door. Fear crept into Castiel’s heart. The bang was followed by a string of muttered curses before the door was shoved open and a figure stumbled in.

Castiel knew immediately who it was, and before he could even think he was rushing to the bars, towards Dean.

“Dean, what in the Dead Lands are you doing?” he hissed.

Dean grinned at him, eyes shining. “Thought it would be obvious, Cas. I’m busting you out.”

Castiel blinked at him, incredulous. Once again, he’d been wrong about Dean Winchester. He was just full of surprises.

“You put me in here,” Castiel reminded him.

Dean glared slightly as he rifled through his pockets. His hair was wet and matted to his forehead, and his arm looked to be bleeding underneath where his sleeves were rolled up. “Yeah, no shit. But now I’m busting you out.”

“The guard took the keys,” Castiel told him. Dean unearthed whatever it was he was searching for and held it up to Castiel’s face.

“I’m the boss, Cas, remember? I have a master key.” Dean unlocked the door to the cell and it swung open. He beamed and pocketed the key once more. Castiel gaped at him for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m not leaving until you explain what is going on.”

Dean groaned. “Fine. It’s kind of a long story, but what is currently going on right now is that I put all the horses in the castle as a distraction. I could have rescued you without the distraction, but we also gotta grab something. Plus, Sam and Jess and Eileen are hiding in a carriage outside and that’s not exactly inconspicuous, and I really don’t want anyone to notice. I’d also really love if we could get out of here without anyone realizing that I’m gone. When they do, they’ll waste a bunch of time trying to track me down. Also, they know I have the master key and will waste even more time changing every lock in the building. Satisfied?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Well, I’ll explain more later.”

“Why should I believe you?” Castiel challenged.

Dean sighed heavily and stepped into the cage, leaving the door hanging open. “Look, I get it, I wouldn’t trust me either, but your trial is tomorrow. Even if you trust me when you shouldn’t, you're dead anyway, so what does it matter?”

“I’d prefer not to have my feelings played with anymore.”

Dean met his eyes and took a long moment studying him, drinking him in. “Fine,” he said. He fished the key out of his pocket and shoved it into Castiel’s hand, the same hand he’d injured months ago. He seized Castiel roughly by the shoulders and shoved him backwards out of the cage, trapping himself inside. The door locked automatically when Dean slammed it back in. “Your move.”

Castiel had two options.

The first was walking away. What he’d do next or where he’d walk to, he had no idea, but no one would blame him for leaving Dean here to rot.

The second option would be to trust Dean once more.

“You're trying to stop Crowley,” Castiel guessed. Dean nodded. “You don’t need me for that.”

“See, that’s where you're wrong. You know where he keeps the artifacts, and I’m willing to bet that they’re still there,” Dean countered. “Besides,” he said, voice softening, “I do need you. Not just for this, but, you know. Always,” Dean admitted, unwittingly setting Castiel’s soul on fire. “And you don’t deserve this crap.”

Castiel studied him, his wet hair, the cut on his arm, the honest expression on his face. He had so, so many questions, but Dean trusted Castiel enough to lock himself in a cell. The least he could do was return the favor.

Castiel unlocked the door with a heavy sigh. “I demand a full explanation, soon.”

“No worries.” Dean stepped out of the cage and together they turned and left the cell block. “You lead the way, Cas. Everyone should be a bit preoccupied with the horses for a bit longer.”

“How did you manage to surprise the entire palace with a stampede of horses?” Castiel asked as they began jogging. His legs protested the effort, but he pushed through. If Dean could kill a dragon with a concussion and a dislocated shoulder, he could run on stiff legs.

“With a lot of difficulty. It was the reason I wasn’t here sooner, but I’ll explain later, I swear. Where are we going?”

“You want to re-steal the artifacts?”

“Thought I made that pretty clear.”

“We can only take one at a time. They’re so powerful that Crowley will notice if two go missing immediately.”

Dean swore as Castiel led them around a corner. Luckily enough, one of the ways to the secret room was through the dungeons. He figured it was best if they avoided the horses for as long as possible. “That’s kind of a bummer.”

“Rebellions take time, Dean,” Castiel reminded him, flinging out a hand to stop them. “Kick that floor tile in.” Castiel had marked it months ago with a red dot in the center. Dean obeyed without a second thought. It slanted inward slightly, and Dean kicked it aside. Underneath it was a black abyss, though ladder rungs were faintly visible from the wall’s torch light. “After you, Captain.”

Dean smiled at him a bit sadly. “Can’t really call me that anymore, Cas.”

“You’ll be Captain again once this is all over,” Cas promised. Dean didn’t answer, only sighed and started down the ladder. Castiel followed after a few moments, replacing the floor tile as he went.

The chute was pitch black and damp, but luckily a shorter passage than it originally seemed. Castiel dropped to the ground but stumbled and crashed into Dean, who righted him. “Cas, I can’t see shit.”

“Do you have a match?”

Dean sighed and shuffled through his pockets again, eventually procuring the requested item. “Here.”

Castiel felt through the air until his hand hit a wall, and he struck the match. He couldn’t see much, but it was enough. He fumbled for Dean and grabbed his hand. It was warm and calloused, firm. “Why do you have so much in your pockets?”

“Because it’s better to be prepared.”

“I think you have control issues,” Castiel teased. Dean chuckled softly.

It was too easy for Castiel to fall back into his usual repertoire with Dean. Castiel still wasn’t sure if things could go back to the way they used to be between them. Dean had betrayed him and left him in a jail cell for a month. While Castiel understood and wasn’t exactly angry with Dean, who was to say that this was not another trick?

Castiel couldn’t possibly help but snort, though, when Dean walked smack into a wall. He just cursed and rubbed his forehead before shoving on the wall. It was, in fact, the door to the secret room.

The room was lit in soft yellow light and blissfully empty, unlike the last few times Castiel had been there to take something, when it had been filled with guards. Dean pulled his hand away from Castiel’s as he blew out the match.

“Okay, wait, we need a plan. We have to get to the front of the castle without anyone seeing. Do you think—”

“We can use the tunnels,” Castiel assured him. “There’s one that comes out in the gardens and from there we can get to the gates.”

“Damn, how do you know all this shit?” Dean asked, beginning to circle the room. It was small— tiny, really, barely longer than Dean’s entire body on any side. The artifacts were sitting on a small circular table in the center in a haphazard pile.

“I was five years old and set loose in an ancient palace,” Castiel deadpanned. “I would wager that I know more about this castle than Crowley does.”

Dean smirked slightly. “Good for us, then.” He reached out and plucked the Michael sword from the pile. Castiel was struck by the… rightness of it, the way Dean held the sword of the King of Angels in his hand. “Let’s roll.”

Dean tucked the sword into some inner pocket of his shirt and slipped his fingers through Castiel’s as they exited the room at a brisk walk.

Castiel went back up the shaft, Dean following after him, until he hit his head on the underside of the floor. He pressed his body forward into the wall, making sure his feet were secure on their rung before letting go with his hands to remove the floor tile above his head. He shoved it to the side and hauled himself upwards and out of the hole. He knelt on the ground and extended a hand for Dean, who accepted it with his left hand— his right shoulder must have still been sore.

The ceiling was still shaking, though considerably less so than it had been when Dean had arrived in the cell block— there must have been some success in containing the horses. “We should move quickly,” Castiel warned Dean, kicking the tile back into place and rushing off down the hall. It didn’t occur to him that he was still holding Dean’s hand until they turned the corner. He blushed but didn’t do anything about it.

There was no more going through the floor— the tunnel to the garden wasn’t actually much of a secret, just out of the way. After a series of dizzying turns that confused even Castiel, they burst out of the palace and were sprinting through the grounds, ignoring the chaos behind them.

The carriage at the castle gates had remained undisturbed. It looked to be one of the palace carriages, actually- Dean must have stolen it. Funny, that the Captain had become more of a criminal than Castiel, between the horses and the carriage and the artifact.

They practically dove inside, onto the startled laps of Jessica and Eileen. Sam must have been driving. Castiel let go of Dean’s hand as he collapsed onto the seat. His legs were screaming and his heart pounding. The carriage started moving before Dean had even pulled the door shut.

“Oh, thank the Angels,” Jessica said, placing a hand on her heart. There was a lantern hanging on the wall, flickering weakly. Castiel waved at Eileen, who just smiled and signed something to him.

_You're safe now._

Castiel was still skeptical, but he nodded. He turned to Dean. “Where are we going?” He made sure to sign the words as well. He was very rusty, but Castiel had never forgotten the language.

“The forest,” Dean answered, looking out the window nervously. “I’ll explain everything when we get there.”

“Why can’t you explain now?”

“Because I haven’t explained to any of these guys yet, and I don’t want to tell you now and then have to repeat it to Sam later.”

Castiel frowned and looked to Jess and Eileen. “You're going on the run and you don’t even know why?”

Jess simply shrugged. “I trust Dean.”

 _I have my own issues with the King,_ Eileen signed and spoke. _And I’d rather not be questioned when my bosses go missing._

 _Why?_ Castiel also spoke as he signed.

Eileen smirked. _I’m not supposed to be alive._

“Seriously, Cas, patience,” Dean pleaded. “I promised to explain, and I will, but it’s a long ass story, and Sam’ll be pissy at me if I tell you guys before I tell him.”

“Why’s your hair wet?” Jess asked suddenly.

Dean blinked at her. “Seriously? Don’t ask questions. It’s not question time yet.”

Jess sniffed at the air. “Is that wine? Did you get wine poured on your head?”

“That’s not important right now, okay?” Dean snapped as they moved from the smooth city roads onto the bumpy forest path.

“How are we going to get this carriage far enough into the forest to remain hidden?”

Dean groaned. “I know people, okay? We’ll stop in a couple of minutes. No more questions.”

Castiel opened his mouth to ask yet another, but quickly closed it. He could be patient, if needed. He’d waited in a damp cell for a month now— he could wait a bit longer to get some answers.

True to his word, the carriage stopped a few minutes later with a scream of “Angels! Dean, what-”

Dean grinned. “That’d be our cue.” He popped open the door to the carriage and slid out. Castiel traded a scared look with the two girls before they followed him out into the night.

It was difficult to see, as the usual light of the moon and stars was blocked by clouds, but Castiel was able to make out a hulking figure blocking the path. The Winchester brothers stood before it, Dean slightly in front of Sam. Not defensively, Castiel realized, but because he was speaking with the hulking mass in their way.

It was only when the dragon’s nostrils lit up that Cas realized what it was. Jess sucked in a gasp, but Eileen only clenched and unclenched her fists. What was Dean doing, talking to a dragon? Castiel was more confused than ever, which was saying something.

Castiel took a deep breath before approaching the conversation. He had not forgotten his last dragon encounter; though he himself had walked away unscathed, he’d had to drag Dean around the forest for several hours, and this time, there was no med bay to take him to, no one to ask for help.

“Yes, I remember where to go,” Dean was saying. He sounded vaguely annoyed, but also… affectionate?

“Well, I wouldn’t want you and your friends to get lost,” the dragon told him. Castiel frowned. She sounded matronly, like a mother letting her child out on their own for the first time. Castiel was further perplexed.

Dean sighed. “Mozrath, I promise we won’t get lost. And if we do, I’m sure you’d be able to find us.”

Mozrath snorted and stomped a clawed foot— a foot half as long as Castiel’s entire body. “And if someone else finds you first?”

“Mozrath,” Dean said sternly. Castiel looked to Sam, who looked just as confused, but no longer scared.

It seemed Dean was keeping all kinds of secrets.

Mozrath bowed her head, a show of obedience. What gave Dean the power to make a dragon obey him? Chills ran up Castiel’s arm. He hadn’t been outside in a month— it was colder now, truly autumn, but that wasn’t the cause of Castiel’s goosebumps.

He wondered if anyone truly knew Dean Winchester, a man to whom dragons bowed. Even his brother looked lost.

“If you insist, Your Majesty.” Castiel nearly fell over. Sam just furrowed his brow, opening his mouth and then shutting it again. “I trust you.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Dean grumbled. Castiel was past the point of shock at this point— in all honesty, he kind of wanted a nap. “Do you think the horse can find its own way home, or would you like to send an escort with it?”

Mozrath shook her head at Dean, sending tiny sparks flying everywhere, casting a glow around all of them. Dean walked past Sam and Castiel to the carriage to set the horse free. He walked it a little bit in the direction of the castle before letting the reins go and slapping it on the thigh, sending it galloping.

The dragon stretched her wings outward, expertly weaving them between the trunks of trees to their full span. Castiel didn’t even have it in him to be shocked when she beat her wings and rose above the treeline before dipping back down to seize the carriage in her claws. She held it as easily as Castiel might have held a thick book. Then, she flew upwards with it until she was no longer visible, high above the clouds.

Castiel whirled around to find Dean standing before him, looking just a tad bit guilty. He narrowed his eyes at him. “Do we get to ask questions now?”

Dean gave him an apologetic smile. “Not yet. We gotta move, fast.”

“Where are we going?” Castiel asked as Dean immediately ventured left, off the path. Sam and Castiel followed, Jess and Eileen a few steps behind them. Jess slid her hand into her husband’s.

Castiel gritted his teeth and quickened his pace to catch up to Dean when he didn’t answer. “I said no questions, Cas.”

“You're not the boss of me,” Castiel retaliated. “Even if you are King of the Dragons.”

“I’m not King of the Dragons.” Castiel was fairly sure Dean was blushing.

“Then why—”

Dean stopped, whirling around so he was facing Castiel. “Cas. I know you want answers, but we do not have time right now, okay? The Guard could be on our asses any minute and we need to get gone, so for the love of the Angels, would you just be patient and shut up?”

Castiel crossed his arms and glared at Dean for a few moments before continuing walking, right past the Captain. The _former_ Captain, he reminded himself.

Dean walked faster to pass him. Castiel glowered, though to be fair, Dean knew where they were going and he didn’t.

He wasn’t even sure why he was so mad— aside from the lying and betrayal. Castiel understood that right now the most important thing was getting to safety, but Dean was still pissing him off.

He’d put Castiel in that cell and then left him there, even when he’d obviously had his mind changed about which side of the war he was on for some time. Long enough to orchestrate the whole horse scheme and befriend dragons, and apparently become their King. If the situation had been reversed, and it were Dean locked away, Castiel would have been there the first second he was able, damn whatever else was going on.

It occurred to Castiel that Dean didn’t quite feel the same way about him as he felt about Dean. His heart sank. He forgot, sometimes, that he blew their relationship out of proportion when Dean undoubtedly only saw him as a friend. He felt so right around Dean that it was easy to ignore the fact that he was just one of Dean’s many friends, while Dean was… his only friend. Dean even made friends with _dragons._

Castiel sighed. He would just have to get used to the fact that he was rather insignificant to Dean— especially now, surrounded by his family. In the months they’d spent together during the summer, it had almost always been just the two of them, but Castiel was sure it would now be painfully obvious where he stood with Dean in comparison to his brother and Jessica.

Dean stopped, shoulders hunched. Castiel kept walking until he stood next to him, determined not to miss out on another dragon chat.

The air around them seemed to grow warmer. Dragon’s breath, though there was no dragon in sight. Dean didn’t so much as move a muscle, arms crossed over his chest. His arm had stopped bleeding, Castiel noticed. His hair also seemed to be dry.

“Mozrath was worried you’d get lost,” a deep voice said from between the trees.

Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

“As I assured her you would be, King,” the dragon said as he stepped forward into their line of sight. Castiel couldn’t make out much other than his hulking size and faintly lit nostrils. “I figured it would amuse you.” This dragon was bigger than the other— much bigger. Castiel felt terror clamp onto his insides, along with the chill that accompanied the use of the word _King._

“Really hilarious, her mother-henning me when we could be attacked at any second. And I told you not to call me that.” That seemed to be a trend with Dean and his titles.

“And I told you,” the dragon growled, leaning closer down, “that it is your title and you will own it.”

Castiel’s instincts told him to run, but he knew he couldn’t even if he wanted to. This dragon was much bigger than the one Dean had killed, though maybe he could have gotten away with it, if Dean was their King.

Dean unfolded his arms. “Quit being dramatic. Alright, everyone hop on,” Dean instructed, turning back to the humans.

The dragon plopped onto his haunches. They all just stared at him. Dean shook his head to the sky and seized Cas’ arm, dragging him toward the dragon. Castiel let him, and his body moved on instinct when Dean slapped his rear to get him to mount the creature. He settled just behind where the dragon’s back started to slope upwards into its neck.

“You are the Celestial,” the dragon said, his mighty voice rumbling underneath Castiel.

“Um. Yes. Castiel.”

“I know your name. The King speaks highly of you.”

It took a second for Castiel to connect that he meant Dean, and a warm feeling lit in his chest, counteracting the still-seething pot of anger. “How exactly did he become your King?”

The dragon snorted. “I will not spoil his story for you.”

Castiel shook his head but said nothing.

He couldn’t tell if it was intentional, the fact that he and Dean end up separated by Sam, Eileen, and a pregnant Jessica. He tried not to think about it.

Everything was much simpler when it was just the two of them.

Much like the other dragon, Mozrath, this dragon stretched his wings out to their full length between the trees before taking flight, quickly darting high above the clouds.

Being up so high above the world was heady; the wind on Castiel’s face alone was enough to tear a delighted laugh from him. He could get used to flying as a mode of transport.

The others behind them didn’t seem to agree. Jessica had her arms wrapped so tightly around his waist he feared he might pop, and the screaming behind her was either Sam or Dean, because Eileen was praying. If made to guess, Castiel would say _both_ brothers were screaming their heads off.

The dragon laughed, the sound almost caught and blown away on the wind. “His Highness has not yet taken to flight.”

“HIS HIGHNESS NEVER FUCKING WILL,” Dean roared. The dragon laughed again, as did Castiel.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Castiel admiring the clouds beneath them, Jess refusing to relax her grip. Eventually a single mountain peak rose up through the clouds, and the dragon swerved towards it. Castiel realized they were likely heading to an entire clan of dragons. He should have been afraid, he knew, but apparently Dean was their King.

Castiel didn’t think he’d ever wanted to know the story behind something more. Maybe it was similar to wolves, how a wolf that killed the alpha became the next alpha, and the dragon Dean had killed was the previous King. It was the only thing that made sense to Castiel.

The dragon alighted on a small plateau in front of a small cave— a small cave for a dragon, at least. Torches were lit along the walls, bathing them all in light. A purple dragon was pacing around the cave— Mozrath, Castiel realized. Two smaller dragons were scuffling in the corner, maybe only twice Castiel’s height. One of them was a dusky purple, the other jet black, like the dragon they were currently astride.

Mozrath sighed. “Thank the Angels.”

Dean hopped off the black dragon’s back elegantly. “What’d I tell you?”

The small dragons stopped scuffling and sat on their haunches. They waved their tails at Dean. Dean waved back before turning to help the rest of them off the big dragon, who laid down and rested his head as soon as Castiel was safely on the ground.

Dean led them into the cave and showed them to a circle of plush red velvet chairs, all human sized. Castiel sank into one. He was so tired, it was a miracle he didn’t pass out right then and there.

“Alright,” Dean said, settling in the chair next to Castiel’s. The carriage sat behind them, Castiel realized. He hadn’t noticed it. “So. I understand you're all confused.”

“Dean,” Mozrath said gently, jerking her head towards the little dragons.

“What? Oh, alright fine. Everyone, these are my dragon friends. The overprotective purple one is Mozrath. Her husband, the one who flew us over, is Dyaldee. Their kids, who are being _very_ polite, for once, are the twins. The purpley-grey one is Amaia, and the black one is Tokliva.”

Castiel turned to Dean after giving each dragon a once-over. “You have much more explaining to do than I originally thought.”

“No. No, no political talk until you’ve all had some food in your bellies. The sun is about to come up! You poor babies haven’t eaten all night,” Mozrath scolded. Castiel was wondering how she could possibly serve them food with her giant clawed feet when the dragon shrank right before his eyes into… a human woman. A human woman with deep purple hair and skin and slitted blue eyes, but human still. Once again, everyone but Dean seemed utterly flabbergasted.

Mozrath went to a stove that had been hidden behind the carriage and filled a pot with water before lighting a fire with a simple breath and letting it boil. She turned to see four stares upon her. She smiled. “All dragons can shapeshift, but it gets uncomfortable after a few hours or so. You feel too contained.”

Castiel just slowly nodded. As if to prove a point, the twins shapeshifted as well, into a girl with skin to match her scales but long blonde hair and slitted black eyes, and a boy with pitch black skin but electric blue eyes with blonde hair as well. Dyaldee remained curled up outside the cave, snoozing. The twins did a lap around the ring of chairs before returning to their scuffle in dragon form. Sam looked like he’d just unlocked all the secrets to the universe. Eileen looked uncomfortable, and Jess looked like she wanted to take a nap.

Dean, however, looked as comfortable as he would in his own home. He couldn’t have known these dragons more than a month, and yet somehow they’d become his friends, he their King. How had he even found these creatures?

“Dean,” Castiel said sleepily, resting his cheek on his fist. “Am I allowed to ask questions now?”

Dean yawned and slumped in his chair. “Yeah, but don’t expect detailed answers.”

Mozrath _tsked_ behind him. “It’s food and then straight to bed for all of you.”

“I don’t think Cas is gonna let me sleep until I do some ‘splaining.”

“Mama,” Tokliva said, pausing in pinning his sister to the ground for a moment. “It’s daytime. Do humans sleep at daytime instead of night?”

“Humans sleep at night,” Dyaldee answered. “His Highness and his friends just forgot to sleep last night.”

“That’s my first question,” Castiel said, jerking upright. “King?”

Dean groaned. “Nope, too long of a story.”

Castiel huffed. “Fine. Why did you have wine in your hair?”

“Because someone spilled wine in my hair.” Castiel glared. “During the stampede.”

He had been told not to expect detailed answers.

“What about the cut on your arm?” Dyaldee raised his head at that and Mozrath whirled around, eyes narrowing. Dean glared at him as she stalked over and seized his arm roughly, inspecting the wound.

“Angels, Mozrath, really? It’s just a scratch. And before you ask—” Dean shot a meaningful look to Dyaldee, “—no one did it to me. The stampede had the whole castle shaking and a battle axe fell off the wall, conveniently onto my arm.”

Dyaldee lowered his head back to the ground. Castiel wondered if the dragons were so protective over him because he was their friend or their King. Mozrath whipped out a rag and dipped it into the now boiling water to wipe away the dried blood, hands moving efficiently yet tenderly.

Mozrath poured the entire contents of a jar of noodles into the pot to cook. Castiel’s stomach rumbled painfully. All he’d had to eat was bread and cheese this past month— probably more than other prisoners got, but still not much.

“Dean, you never introduced your friends,” Mozrath reminded him. The twins stopped fighting for a moment to listen.

“Right,” Dean said, sitting up. Dyaldee peeked at them through one open eye. “So, this right here is Cas. Castiel. Then we have Eileen. She’s deaf, and I don’t know how good she is at reading dragon lips.”

“Not very good,” Eileen said mournfully. Castiel made a note to translate everything they said in sign language from now on.

Dean winced. “Sorry. Cas—”

“I will.”

Dean grinned at him. “Next to Eileen is my sister-in-law, Jess, and inside her stomach is my niece or nephew.”

“They’re not really in my stomach, Dean.”

“I don’t need to hear about your lady parts,” Dean replied, not missing a beat. “And next to her is my baby brother, Sammy.”

“It’s _Sam._ And I’m not a baby.”

“Sammy enjoys such activities as crying and pooping his pants.” Amaia giggled again. Tokliva looked like he was trying not to.

Sam glared at his brother. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Dyaldee chuckled. “His Highnesses are rather crude, it seems.” Castiel signed his words to Eileen.  
“You knew that,” Dean retorted.

Sam pulled a face. “You become King of the dragons and now _I_ have to be dragon royalty?”

Dyaldee laughed again. “Your brother is not King of the dragons.”

Confusions slammed into everyone’s features. Dean blushed and tried not to look guilty.

“Then why—”

“Dean Winchester,” Dyaldee interrupted, “is King of Eureva. Bound by blood to the throne in Lavendel. He is your King every bit as he is mine.”

Castiel’s eyes widened and his jaw all but dropped. He finished signing the dragon’s words and turned to Dean. He was smirking slightly, but otherwise not looking at any of them, staring at the ceiling. Sam had his head in his hands. Jess had one hand on her husband’s back, another on her stomach, maybe realizing the child in her womb may very well grow up to be ruler of the country if Dean didn’t have children of his own.

Castiel opened his mouth for another spew of questions when Mozrath set the pot of pasta on the table in the center of their circle of chairs.

“Food,” she commanded. “Sleep. Then you can tell all the stories you want.”

 

 

Castiel woke around midday when the sun was high in the sky, but the dragons were nowhere to be found inside the cave. They had all curled up and slept right in the red chairs the night before, and Castiel stretched to work out the kinks in his back. His companions were still asleep.

In the light of day, the bags under Dean’s eyes were harshly prominent. What had he been doing all this time? Trying to save Castiel, his people… he didn’t want to wake Dean, but the curiosity burning in his mind nearly had him shaking his friend awake.

He stepped out of the cave for some fresh air and found the dragons, flying high in the sky. Tokliva was a black streak through the air, his sister trailing along behind. Their parents treaded air above them.

 

 

Mozrath spotted him and flew back down to the cave, alighting not a foot from him. Castiel gulped down his fear. “Good morning, Mozrath.”

“Good morning, Castiel. I hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you.” Castiel studied Mozrath’s talons and remembered different talons, ones that had dug into Dean’s flesh and tossed him about like a rag doll. “Does it bother you that Dean slayed a dragon only a month ago?”

A dark look crossed Mozrath’s face. “Aryax was no friend. When the false King took over, he had many radical ideas about what to do about it. When he started burning the forest, he was exiled. For him to attack his true King without even realizing who he was…” Mozrath shook her head. “It was a mercy. And the way I understand it, His Majesty and yourself were provoked.”

“I didn’t do much of anything,” Castiel corrected her. “I relocated Dean’s shoulder afterwards.”

“And carried him through the forest for hours to get him to help,” Mozrath reminded with a smile. “Had you not been there, Eureva would have no King.”

“That’s not true. There’s Sam,” Castiel countered.

Mozrath shook her head. “I fear by the time the younger Winchester was made aware of his past, it would have been too late for all of us. Besides, he never would have accepted himself as King if his brother were dead. He would have lived his life feeling it should have been Dean, and a King who does not feel he is King is no King at all.”

Castiel tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well said.”

“She’s full of fun things like that.” Dean’s voice interrupted from behind them. “Lots and lots of telling me how to be King.”

“Someone ought to,” she muttered, padding further into the cave. She pushed the carriage back and curled up behind the chairs.

Castiel hurried back to his own chair. “Dean—”

“Wait for everyone else to wake up, Cas,” Dean reprimanded. “I’m only telling this once.”

“The first part of the story belongs to Castiel,” Mozrath told him. “Your brother and his wife still know nothing at all, and I don’t believe you explained much to Eileen.”

“What does Eileen know?” Castiel asked. He couldn’t help the little stab of jealousy in his gut at hearing that Eileen knew something he didn’t, something even Sam didn’t know. What did that mean? What was she to Dean? She’d come to visit him after the dragon attack— twice. And now here she was, sitting with Castiel and Dean’s family. Where exactly did she fit?

“She returned to us our King,” Mozrath said happily. Dean sighed at the ceiling.

“She was the one who told me… everything, about me, about my mom. She knew because her mom was friends with my mom, and she told Eileen and… yeah. I didn’t tell her anything outside of that. There was no damn _time._ ”

“Your mother was the Princess,” Castiel guessed, “the one who ran away.”

Dean nodded. “She ran to Lawrence, and that’s where Crowley found her. Joke’s on him, though. Just the right amount of people made it out to completely ruin his life.”

Castiel was reeling. All that time he’d been trying to bring down Crowley, and the answer had been _right there,_ smiling in the streets as he patrolled, sitting across Castiel on his floor, joking with him, wooing him with his sparkling eyes and kind heart.

Maybe if he’d looked into the Princess just a bit more, he would have found Dean before Crowley gave him his mission to trick Castiel into giving up information. Information that Dean hadn’t related to Crowley. Sitting in front of Castiel all this time had been the salvation of their entire country, maybe their entire world, and he hadn’t even known it. He was the missing half Castiel had needed this entire time, because his objective had always been to stop Crowley from bringing the apocalypse upon them, but what then, Castiel had never known. They couldn’t exactly continue living under an evil, immortal, tyrant King.

Dean was their ‘what then.’ Castiel wondered what they’d done to deserve such a man as their leader, first as Captain and now as King. A smile tugged at his mouth as he watched him, his head still tilted up to the top of the cave. He caught Castiel looking and grinned, just as Sam was waking up.

Jess had fallen asleep in his chair with him the night before, though it looked to be a tight fit. As Sam stretched, she nearly toppled off the cushion, but luckily she reached up and seized Sam’s long hair and steadied herself. Sam was fairly awake after that.

Jess stood, still laughing, and jostled Eileen awake. The brunette startled, sitting bolt upright until she realized who was shaking her, face breaking easily into a smile and shoulders relaxing. Jess sat next to her friend and rested her head on her shoulder, yawning.

Dean cleared his throat and put his feet up on the coffee table. Mozrath glared but didn’t say anything. “I get that you're all a little confused,” he started.

“I think we’ve crossed over from confusion to just existing in a state of, ‘Dean, what the fuck,” Sam deadpanned. Castiel’s fingers moved without even thinking about it, as Eileen was looking towards him and Dean, not Sam.

Dean rolled his eyes at him. “Well, whatever. So, brief overview: Crowley is trying to end the world. He also isn’t actually the King, because that’s me, but we already covered that.”

“I actually don’t think we did,” Jess commented.

 _“Whatever._ Point is, Crowley’s a fake. Am I missing anything?”

“Nothing big,” Mozrath assured him. “That’s the general gist.”

“No, it isn’t,” Castiel disagreed. “What about Lawrence?”

Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Right. Sam, you and I were actually born in Lawrence, but we got out. So did Eileen. More details on that later, but, anyway, Cas?”

Castiel frowned at him. “What?”

“We’re putting everything on the table, man, and you know this part way better than I do. Chronological order, come on.”

Castiel frowned deeper. “My knowledge isn’t even a year old.”

“We’re telling a story, Cas. Just— events in chronological order. If it’s really important, we can talk about how you learned everything later. What was the first step in creating this mess we’re in?”

“Wouldn’t it be more prudent to explain the nature of the mess we’re in?”

Dean sighed deeply and put his forehead in his hand. “Just— tell them what you told me.”

“You arrested me last time I told that story.”

“That was _one time._ And I also broke you out of prison.”

“After a month.”

Dean looked up at him with an expression like he’d been punched in the gut. “Cas, I wanted to haul you out of there the day I put you in, but I had to make sure everything was ready to go first. It took time to plan it all out to make sure no one got hurt. Crowley would’ve loved an excuse to hurt Sam, Jess, my friends… Making it seem like they weren’t involved was hard. Crowley had to see me and Meg fighting and sniping with each other, he had to see me taking Charlie and Kevin out of your cell block and back to their normal jobs and putting the strictest people in the Royal Guard on duty. He had to see Jody and Donna annoyed to be running training because I wasn’t there, and he had to see every single one of them panicked during that stampede.

“I had to clear out your apartment and make it look like a random robbery, convince Sam and Jess to sell the Roadhouse and be ready to book it at a moment’s notice, pack up my own stuff and figure out where we would go once we got you out.” Dean hadn’t raised his voice an inch, but each word echoed around Castiel’s head as if they’d been screamed.

He’d been unfathomably selfish in thinking for even a moment that the reason Dean hadn’t come for Castiel sooner was lack of caring, or even because he didn’t need him until last night. He wasn’t the only one Dean needed to keep safe, to protect.

And Dean _had_ protected him. It jeopardized everything, Dean’s special treatment of Castiel, the way he’d assigned friendly faces to be on watch, his lying to the King about Castiel’s motives. Castiel was even beginning to suspect that Meg’s daily presence was Dean’s doing— she’d kept him sane with all her chatter, not to mention the extra food. If Crowley knew about it, surely he would’ve suspected Dean’s sympathies were out of place, could have decided to punish him through Sam or Jess at any moment.

Castiel despised himself, and the more Dean talked, the more intense his self hatred became.

“I wanted to break you out from day one,” Dean said, voice now slightly choked. “But I thought— I thought you were safer down there, for a while at least. Everyone was safer before. Getting you out had to change _everything,_ put _everyone_ at risk, but I had to do it, and I did my best to isolate everyone to try and spare them, because I couldn’t bring them all with us. Someone has to protect the city.” Dean took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Don’t,” Castiel said angrily, though the anger was at himself, not Dean. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t— I didn’t realize how much had to be done. I understand, Dean. I would willingly walk back in there to give you more time to keep the people you love safe.”

Dean sighed in relief and smiled at him warmly. After a few moments, Sam coughed. “So, um. Is anyone gonna explain… anything?”

Castiel tore his gaze away from Dean. Sam had his eyebrows raised expectantly. He seemed to be handling everything exceptionally well; he, too, had just received quite a bit of life-altering information.

“Right,” Cas said, “I suppose I should begin at the beginning.”

“Usually a good place to to start,” Dean agreed.

Castiel folded his hands in his lap and then pulled them apart to sign for Eileen. “Crowley is not who he says he is— who you all think he is.”

He told the story of Crowley’s true parentage, how he’d been resurrected, the plague, the vaccine, everything. When he was done, he rested his hands in his lap and looked around the room for everyone’s reactions.

“Wait,” Sam said, rubbing at his eyes. “But that… can’t be true.”

Castiel tilted his head at him. “Why not, Sam?” he prompted.

“I…” Sam thought for a moment before slumping in defeat. “So just, all these years, no one’s been able to even _think_ about this that hard? And that still doesn’t explain how Dean’s the King.”

“Sammy,” Dean said softly, “do you know the royal family’s name?”

“I… no? That can’t be right, I have to know-”

“It’s Campbell, Sam, or it was. That was Mom’s maiden name.”

Sam rubbed at his temples. “I thought Mom was Bobby’s sister?”

Dean shook his head. “He never knew her, but we’re not there yet. Now you know how Crowley came to power, but that’s not his whole deal. Cas?”

Castiel drew his legs up so he sat on top of his feet. He shook out his hands and started speaking once more. “There are seven extremely powerful objects in this world that Crowley has been collecting. The sword of Michael, Lucifer’s halo, a stone from the Dead Lands, the horn of Gabriel, Adam’s crown, the Book of Prayers— the original— and a feather from Jophiel. He’s collecting them in order to raise an army of Demons from the Dead Lands, to bring back Lucifer.” Castiel paused for a reaction, but there was none. Perhaps nothing could shock them any longer. “I don’t know if the artifacts themselves are ingredients in a spell or if it’s simply the power they possess, but they’re essential. When I discovered this information—”

“Wait,” Sam interrupted. “How did you discover all of this?”

Castiel sighed heavily. “I stumbled upon the room the artifacts were kept in. Later, I found a book detailing what they were and the nature of their power. But most of this comes from a conversation I overheard between Crowley and Lucifer.”

“How could Crowley talk to Lucifer if he’s in the Dead Lands?”

“I imagine Crowley used some sort of spell, Sam, I don’t know. After I heard Crowley’s plans, I went back to the room where I’d seen the artifacts and I grabbed one and ran. I ended up in a cave in the mountains, a cave protected from magic where Crowley could not sense the artifacts. I continued stealing from Crowley until—”

“Until me,” Dean finished. “A broken wrist is a great way to stop a thief, apparently.” Castiel glared at him.

“Wait, hold on, okay,” Jess said, closing her eyes and waving her hands in an X in front of her. “Cas, you were committing grand theft— _treason_ — and yet you become friends with the Captain of the Guard?”

“Yeah, I always wondered about that,” Dean agreed. “It’s not like you didn’t know who I was. You knew _exactly_ who I was, so what in the Dead Lands were you doing?”

Castiel blushed. “You're all lucky I did, so I wouldn’t complain.” Mozrath snorted. Castiel had almost forgotten she was there, she was dozing so silently. “I suppose I was hoping I could use you to get into the castle. It was getting increasingly harder.”

“You _used_ me,” Dean exclaimed in mock offense.

Castiel glared at him. “Don’t even go there, Dean.”

“You went too far ahead,” Mozrath murmured.

“Hmm? We did not.”

“Yes. Castiel told of how the Nephilim scum came to power, but Eileen should have explained about Lawrence before he went into the artifacts.”

“Why doesn’t Mozrath tell the story?” Jess mused. Castiel privately agreed; the dragon seemed to have it more straight than any of them.

“Because Eileen can’t read my lips, and Castiel can barely keep up with the sign language as is,” Mozrath replied. “Besides, I’m tired.”

Dean shook his head. “Alright, fine. Now we’re backing up to what went down with Mom— the Princess.”

Eileen froze as all eyes turned to her, eyes darting to each of them in turn. Jessica squeezed her hand reassuringly, and she cleared her throat and began to speak. “My mother worked in the castle all her life. Her mother was the head chef; she was the Princess’ handmaiden from a young age, and they were good friends.” Eileen cut a nervous glance at Sam before continuing, eyes focused on Castiel. “When the Princess’ parents died, she and my mother hid themselves from the plague and eventually ran away to… Lawrence. Once they realized what the vaccine had done, they decided it was useless to fight against Crowley since he was so powerful and they would only have themselves. So, they each got married, tried to live their lives. My mother refused to vaccinate me.” Eileen stared at her lap, playing with Jess’ hand in her own. “She left me all this in a letter before she died. In it, she told me to find the Winchesters. So I did.”

Castiel nodded slowly. Eileen’s story was short, but to the point. There was no reason not to believe it, plus there was the added bonus of Dean remembering his mother’s maiden name. Mozrath had also said that the dragon Dean had killed— Aryax?— should have known who he was, smelled it on him.

Castiel thought maybe he had. He’d implored Dean to stop Crowley, saying he smelled like a leader. Dean had corrected him- _yeah, of the Guard._ Which was true and remained true. But while the dragon lay dying, he’d made one last retort. _You are a fool. A fool with the weight of the world on his shoulders._

Maybe he’d realized just what type of leader Dean was. If he’d said something about it then, perhaps Dean wouldn’t have killed him.

“I see the doubt on your face, Sam Winchester,” Mozrath said suddenly. Castiel jumped. He’d again forgotten she was there. “Know it to be true. Dragons have a much more innate sense of smell than any creature on this Earth— I smell on you, your brother, and even your wife the blood of the King of Angels.”

“You knew that Crowley was a false King?” Castiel clarified. Mozrath nodded. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

Mozrath snorted. “When dragons attempt to do anything, such as storm the castle and murder Nephilim, there are casualties. We could have gone in human form, but the Nephilim can sense magic, and there were always his soldiers to stop us. We would not hurt men guilty of nothing but doing as they were told, what they thought was righteous. So we have stayed, and waited, unsure if there was any true King or Queen out there.” Mozrath smiled at Dean, sharp white teeth glittering in the light. “It seems the Angels are not as absent as we believe.”

Dean turned his head from her to look at his brother, as did everyone else. Sam was looking down at his hands, lost in thought. After a moment he looked up at Jess, breaking out into a smile. “Let’s see if your mother approves of me _now.”_

Dean snorted, and Jessica beamed, standing and detaching from Eileen to hug her husband, holding his head to her stomach; she was more pregnant than Castiel had realized, nearly four months, it looked. Sam looped his arms around the back of her thighs. Castiel was jealous, suddenly, that they were happy and in love even in the midst of shock and horror, while he…

His options were limited at the moment. Very limited. Just one person. He’d only wanted one person almost since the day he met him.

Dean cleared his throat loudly. “Alright, my turn.” Sam and Jess turned to him but did not separate. Castiel cracked his knuckles in preparation for Dean’s story.

Eileen snapped to draw his his attention and signed, _It’s okay. I read lips._

 _P-r-a-c-t-i-c-e,_ Castiel spelled out, as he didn’t know the sign for it. Eileen put her right hand into a fist and ran it along her index finger in response. Castiel nodded and copied the motion. Practice.

Dean frowned at them, a dark look in his eyes. Eileen gestured for him to continue, though it didn’t dissipate the sudden anger on his face.

“Right,” Dean said to the group once more, voice tight. Castiel frowned. Surely them delaying his story was a slight annoyance at best— was Dean already mad at Castiel for something? He hadn’t sounded angry with Castiel when he’d been defending having to wait to free him… Maybe he was angry at himself? Castiel dwelled on it even as Dean began speaking to his brother. “So, Lawrence. I don’t really remember all that much- I remember the fire, and Dad shoving you into my arms, and running. Somehow I ran all the way to the highway where some merchants were standing around, watching everything burn.” Dean paused to close his eyes and swallow. Castiel could almost imagine the flames dancing behind his eyelids. “I stowed us away in the back of their carriage, and they took us all the way to Revelan. We were on the streets for about a month until Bobby found us.”

Castiel nearly choked on his own spit. “A month? How did you manage to care for a tiny baby on your own for an entire _month?_ You were barely more than a baby yourself!”

Dean quirked a half smile at him. “Digging through trash, begging, stealing.”

“Dean, it was _winter,_ ” Sam said, outraged at the fact that Dean had never told him any of this or the fact that he’d had to endure any part of it, Castiel couldn’t tell. “We both should have _froze_ to death.”

The Winchester brothers had escaped demise at the hand of flame and frost both as toddlers. Truth be told, Castiel pitied Crowley for the storm awaiting him.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, Sam. I snuck into bars, hung out behind the stove, stole blankets, slept in people’s sheds, their garbage bins. You were always a quiet kid, so no one paid much attention. Honestly though, we wouldn’t have made the winter if Bobby hadn’t found us. I told him everything, where we were from and what happened. He was suspicious of the fire, so he told me to keep my trap shut about all of it, and he would claim we were his sister’s kids.”

Sam shook his head. “Guess we were lucky Bobby was so paranoid about everything, then. If you’d told Crowley the truth…”

“I know, right?”

“The amount of luck you all received,” Dyaldee said from the cave entrance, making everyone but Eileen practically jump out of their skins, “is too great an amount to be any sort of coincidence.” Castiel quickly signed the dragon’s words, and Eileen turned, startling a bit when she saw him. “You truly have Angels watching over you, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah, you’ve said. But it’s not about me,” Dean said, turning back to the group.

Dyaldee smirked. “Spoken like a true King. You have come a long way.”

“Would you let me tell the story?” Dean shook his head in exasperation as he stretched his arms up over his head and then immediately winced. He must have forgotten about his shoulder. “Where was I? Bobby took us in? Yeah, so Bobby took us in, and then we grew up, and I was like, okay, I’m gonna go join the Guard. So me and Sam moved to Lavendel, I enlisted and eventually became Captain, yada yada yada. You all already know that stuff. The day it all _really_ started— for me, at least— was the day Crowley called me into the throne room and gave me a mission.”

Dean looked Castiel dead in the eye. “He told me to find Cas, find where he was hiding the artifacts, and bring them back to him. So I went, but I couldn’t really do much until he trusted me. Until that first murder.”

“The girl,” Castiel remembered. “The Celestial.”

“Humanity has always used the Earth to gain resources to better their technology,” Dyaldee rumbled. “Crowley has been… razing the Earth. Taking more than is needed.”

“He was looking for the stone,” Dean concluded. “But the Earth reacted violently through the Celestials. It wouldn’t’ve, if they’d had their powers. But it drove them mad, not being able to do anything about it.”

“Was there a pattern?” Castiel asked, more to the dragons than to Dean. “Any specific order the forest would reach out to them?”

Mozrath shook her head. “Not one we could detect.”

Castiel nodded slowly. Dean went on, “So all of that was happening and then Bobby sent me a letter, about how someone else survived the fire. He said he’d been looking into it a bit, because he had nothing else to do, and he found a letter between Mary Winchester and Maura Leahy,” Dean explained, with a nod to Eileen. “If it hadn’t been for that damn dragon…” Dean trailed off. Castiel understood. There was no use dwelling on could have beens.

“So, on the Autumn Equinox, Cas decided to be really stupid and confess to treason right to my face—”

“I had _valid reasons_ to put my trust in you, Dean!”

Dean smiled at him. “I was joking, Cas. What I meant to say was: Cas saved each and every single one of our asses by confessing to treason right to my face. And then I put him in jail. Then Eileen told me her story, I gave Crowley his artifacts back—”

“Wait,” Castiel interrupted at the same time as Sam. “You learned you were the King and _then_ returned the artifacts?”

“Be pretty damn suspicious if I hadn’t. Plus, nothing compares to seeing his smug face, thinking he’d won, when I knew I was going to take him _down._ So, yeah.” Castiel glared at him, and he held his hands up in defense. “Don’t look at me like that! Crowley can’t do shit anymore, remember?” Dean drew the Michael sword out from inside his shirt. Castiel understood now, why it looked like it belonged in his hands.

At this point, no one had to ask what it was. No one was shocked. Dean set the blade on the seat next to him casually, as if it weren’t one of the most powerful objects in existence. Somehow, Castiel felt that if given a choice in battle, Dean would favor his own sword, despite it being grossly inferior to the Angel’s blade.

“So, then, I started plotting. The only person I told all of this shit to was Meg— only because she would have it no other way, wouldn’t just go along with the plan. She and I decided to make it look like we disagreed on everything— every little thing, so Crowley wouldn’t look too closely at her after I left. I told a few other people a few things, enough that they helped me with the whole horse debacle, but not enough that we’d be fucked if Crowley tried to torture—” the word came out choked, harsh, terrified, and Castiel clenched his hands in his lap, “—them for information. I realized we’d have nowhere to go when we got Cas.” Castiel’s chest heated at that— ‘got Cas’. Not the artifact, but Castiel.

_I do need you. Not just for this, but, you know. Always._

Dean was an enigma to him. He would do something that made Castiel think he felt one way about him, then turn around and contradict himself. It made no sense, but he was beginning to think he could make sense of it. Dean had promised him an explanation, and damn if Castiel wasn’t getting one once Dean was done talking to the group as a whole. The two of them needed to have a very different conversation.

“I hit the books pretty hard, trying to see if there was anything anywhere that would work, but no dice. I did read something, though, about dragons. How they can cloak their own magic so it’s untraceable. I figured, maybe, they could do the same with the artifacts.”

“You should have seen him,” Mozrath interrupted, standing and stretching her wings until they bumped against the ceiling. “Wandering through the forest. No other human could have found us. Celestials, perhaps, but we are experts at hiding from untrained eyes. There is no hiding from the King, however— Dean or any before him. We did not smell him coming, and this stupidly brave boy marched right into the center of our village, chin held high, hand not even on his sword. I knew immediately why the Celestials had stopped going mad. The King had returned, and the forest was set to be avenged.”

“You have a village?” Jess asked.

“Castiel,” Eileen whispered. “What did she say?”

Castiel turned to face Eileen, relaying the dragon’s words in a flurry of motion. Mozrath waited for him to finish before answering Jessica’s question, thankfully.

“We do. We all live in caves in the mountains, but some things must take place in human form. We too like to read, write, perform plays, dance. The five of you will be moved there once the twins return from school. Humans have not visited in a very long time, and the inn we keep is not prepared.”

“Plus, His Highness felt the lot of you would feel more comfortable getting used to four dragons before having to meet a few hundred,” Dyaldee added.

“Aw, Dean, you do care,” Sam teased. Dean gave him a vulgar gesture.

“Before the King’s return,” Dyaldee went on, “I was ruling our village as a chief of sorts. Dean explained to us all that had happened up to that point, and arrangements were made for his own travel back and forth from the capital to our village, what was to be done once his belo—” Dean shot the dragon a glare, and he paused. “Once his… brilliant… plan to free Castiel and retrieve the artifacts came to fruition, and what he was to do once his throne belonged to him once more. I feared it would be impossible to recover all of the artifacts in one night, though we have many ideas on how to recover them one by one.”

“I still don’t understand the horses,” Castiel grumbled, finishing up with the dragon’s speech for Eileen.

“That,” Dyaldee said with a tired look at Dean, “was His Majesty’s plan. We had little to do with it.”

Dean huffed. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Yes, you do,” Sam, Jess, and Castiel responded as one. The dragons may have been willing to put up with Dean’s nonsense in the name of loyalty to their King, but that didn’t mean they had to.

Dean sighed deeply and slumped in his chair. “It, um, may not have been the best idea in hindsight, the horses. Basically, we, and by that I mean me, Jo, Charlie, Kevin, Benny, Jody, Donna— they didn’t know why, they just knew we were doing it— we ‘accidentally’ left some rum in the stable boys’ rooms. So they were, you know, out. Which made it easy to steal the horses. Then I ‘accidentally’ forgot to put anyone on guard at the front gates. The idea was, we let in the horses, everyone shows up to see what’s going on, and then they’d either be really busy trying to contain the horses or caught in the stampede. And, y’know, it worked. Except the whole point of a huge, massive distraction was that no one was supposed to get hurt. I, um, didn’t really think through how much damage letting loose fifty horses into the palace would do.”

Sam dropped his head into his hands as Jess and Eileen laughed outright. Mozrath was shaking with silent laughter, while Dyaldee looked to the sky and shook his head. Castiel kind of wanted to laugh. How could Dean have _possibly_ thought that letting fifty horses loose would cause minimal damage? Before he knew it, Castiel was smiling as he laughed silently, and a grin like he had never seen before alighted Dean’s face.

“You're smiling,” Dean pointed out. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

Normally, such a comment would wipe the grin from his face, but Dean said it with such genuine wonder that Castiel smiled bigger, aimed directly for him.

Sam cleared his throat after a moment, snapping their attention back to their current… meeting? This felt like a meeting to Castiel. “Is that it, then? Are we all caught up?”

Dean frowned, looking upwards in thought. “Uh… yes? I think that’s it.”

“That’s it,” Mozrath verified.

“Okay, great, then… what now?” Jess asked.

“Wait, hold on, anyone have any follow-up questions?”

Jess raised a hand. “Oh, yeah, I do! What. Now?”

Dean glared at her. “The working plan is to get the remaining artifacts, storm the castle, kill Crowley. Everything’ll go smooth as butter once we’re back in Lavendel to stay.”

Eileen frowned. “But, Dean,” she protested, “what if they don’t accept you as King?”

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll make a public announcement and remind everyone of what the vaccine made them forget. There’s even a chance the magic will break once Crowley’s dead.”

“But there’s no way for the people to know for sure you're the true heir,” Eileen pointed out.

“There is,” Mozrath spoke up. “Ancient tests, rooms only accessible through Michael’s blood. And the dragons will stand behind you.”

“I think the people will welcome Dean over Crowley, heir or no heir,” Castiel mused aloud. “He’s very well-liked and already proven to be a good leader with the people’s best interests at heart. I doubt it will take much convincing.”

Dean blushed and looked down. “Thanks, Cas.”

“So, wait,” Sam said, resting his chin on his knuckles. “What’s stopping us from barging in there and just… killing Crowley?”

“Well, for one, spite. Can’t have this all be over too quickly for him,” Dean said with a wink. Castiel rolled his eyes. “But he does still have six artifacts and we don’t know if he can use them against us. Plus, he took all that magic from the Celestials, and something tells me it’s not because he was scared of them. We don’t know if he can use that. Then, there’s the Royal Guard. They’re all assholes. I put them in the Royal Guard because I hate them and vice versa, so they’re super loyal to Crowley. Wouldn’t be surprised if he has them under mind control or something. And like, no offense, but I don’t really think we could take them. Jess is pregnant, for one, Sam can barely _walk_ without tripping over something, Eileen— actually, I don’t know. Do you think you could fight?”

Eileen shrugged, but looked pleased that Dean had asked rather than assumed. “I’m okay.”

“Eh, alright. Cas is—” Dean’s eyes travelled up and down Castiel’s body, slowly. He was still wearing the clothes he’d been arrested in and suddenly they felt dirtier than ever, and gigantic. “Cas, no offense, but you’ve lost too much weight. And you weren’t that great at fighting to begin with. To top it all off, the dragons can’t keep their chill if they get too close to the castle, to Crowley. They’d get too mad and become, well, dragons. So I _really_ don’t like our odds, even if some of the City Guard joined us, which isn’t likely, because only a handful of them know I’m up to something good. And they’re the City Guard and we’re going to be storming the palace. Me and Eileen just won’t cut it.”

“Dean, even if you manage to train Sam and I, it still wouldn’t be enough,” Castiel pointed out. “You need an army.”

Dean sighed. “I know. I just don’t know who I’m willing to trust— or even who I’m willing to ask to risk their lives. I don’t want to deplete the Guard, either. Crowley isn’t the only danger in this world, but I don’t really know anyone else.”

Castiel leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Hmm.” Names and faces flashed through his mind, old friends, old lovers, scorned palace workers and angry West Side rebels longing for a better system. Rebels who would be more than happy to follow Dean, the one man who had refused to give up on that part of the city, even as it fell to crime and poverty. Things had been better in the West Side from the moment Dean was named Captain, and there was no shortage of people there angry at the King but thankful to Dean.

Before he could point this out, however, the young dragon twins _whooshed_ through the cave entrance, laughing. Dyaldee had to duck to avoid them slamming into him.

Tokliva laughed as he skidded to a stop beside his mother, his sister sliding after him. “Mama,” he giggled, “Mama, Amaia flew into a tree.”

Amaia narrowed her eyes at him. “You pushed me!”

Castiel’s lips curved watching the children bicker back and forth. He could see now how Dean had so easily befriended them.

“Children,” Dyaldee scolded, and they stilled under their father’s stern gaze. “You checked in with the innkeepers?”

Amaia shifted into human form, her long blonde hair still seeming out of place to Castiel. Mozrath’s hair had matched her scales— why didn’t the twins’? She nodded to her father. “They said they’re ready to go.”

“Amaia,” Dean said, twisting in his seat. “Did you tell them that they could clear out? We really don’t need servants.”

Amaia nodded again. “They said no. I said you would come and tell them the same thing, but they still said no.”

Dean grinned and held up a hand. “That’s my girl.” Amaia frowned at it for a moment before her face lit up and she slapped Dean’s hand. Of course he’d been teaching dragon children about high-fives. Tokliva shifted into human form as well, just so he could have a high-five. Castiel couldn’t decide if the childrens’ dark coloring was fascinating or unnerving. He decided it was actually quite lovely, in an otherworldly sort of way. Their bright hair and eyes stood out starkly against their skin, making it near impossible to look away.

“Very well. Mozrath, would you rather carry the humans or their luggage?”

Mozrath shook out her wings, causing her children to duck. “I will carry the humans. And Castiel,” she added with a smile.

“I am every bit as human as the rest of them,” Castiel responded.

“No, Castiel. Your power being taken from you does not make it any less yours, just as Dean is still King while another sits on the throne,” Mozrath scolded. Castiel blushed. He supposed she was right. He wondered if by the end of everything, Dean would have his kingdom and Castiel would have pure power buzzing through his veins, giving him a purpose, a duty.

He wondered where that would leave them, once all was said and done. What place could a peasant have in the heart of a King?

Mozrath led the five of them out of the cave and to the plateau. The twins followed, still in human form. Dean climbed atop the dragon’s back first— so funny, how only a month ago he’d climbed onto the back of a beast with the intent to kill, and now he was asking Mozrath for help.

Dean turned and extended a hand for Castiel. He took it without question and settled in behind Dean. Dean kept his hand clenched inside his own, a lifeline. Castiel remembered Dean’s panic during their initial flight to the mountain, and squeezed his hand gently.

“If you fall,” Castiel murmured in Dean’s ear as Eileen climbed up behind him, “you’ll land on top of me, so it’s okay.”

“That’s very comforting, Cas. Have you ever considered a career as a life coach?”

Castiel knocked his forehead into the side of his neck. He seemed to relax slightly under the touch, so Castiel left his head there, resting on Dean’s shoulder, his hand interlocked with Dean’s on his thigh. The position tired Castiel; he’d slept earlier, but he was still tired. He always seemed to be tired, somehow.

Sam was the last to board the dragon, and he waved at the twins as their mother beat her powerful wings and lifted off. The second Mozrath’s feet no longer touched the ground, Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand so tightly it was painful, but he bit down his yelp of pain.

The flight was over before Castiel could count to fifty— it seemed the village rested just at the base of the mountain. Mozrath sank to the ground  and waited for her passengers to get off before shifting into human form. As soon as she joined them, Dyaldee was there setting down the carriage. He, too, shifted into human form.

His human skin also matched his scales, but like the twins, the shock of hair on his head was so blonde it was nearly white. His eyes were the same as Amaia’s: pure black irises, with a thin line of gold around the slitted pupils. They were somehow more terrifying on him as a human.

“Don’t send the servants away just yet, Your Majesty,” Dyaldee advised, voice just as deep and grumpy as when he was a dragon. “Unless you’d like to drag your own luggage.”

Dean frowned. “Just seems… unfair, to make them do it.”

“It’s their job. They are paid for it and they are eager to please you, sir. I suggest you don’t fight it too hard. Is it not the same as when you ordered around members of your Guard?”

Dean didn’t answer, just sighed and started towards the wooden building atop the hill before them. The others followed.

They were greeted inside a warm entryway by a pink-skinned man with bright green eyes and long black hair that hit the floor in a braid. He knelt immediately. “My King,” he greeted.

Dean looked uncomfortable. “Um. Yeah. Hi. That’s— that’s really not necessary.” Dyaldee growled behind him. “I mean— yes. Um. We’re here. You can… stand?” Dyaldee dropped his forehead into his palm and shook his head. Castiel hoped that Dean had gotten to some version of the right response, at least.

The man stood. “Welcome. Where is your luggage?” he asked politely, eyes sweeping over the group. He paused on Castiel and squinted a bit before looking back to Dean.

“It’s, um— Mozrath can— will— show you,” Dean directed. The two of them exited, and from behind a corner a stream of multicolored servants bustled out after them.

A girl with pale green hair and dark green skin stopped before them, bowing to Dean. “My King,” she said. Dean nodded at her and she stood, hands folded primly in front of her. “And you must be Castiel,” she said, offering him a bow as well. Castiel looked at Dean in alarm. Dean just shrugged. “The King speaks highly of you.” That was the second time Castiel had heard that. “My name is Elmienne. I have been instructed to run this inn for as long as needed. I can imagine you're all very stressed and tired. Would you like to eat, or bathe, or sleep?”

“We can’t have all three?” Dean asked.

Elmienne shook her head, though she still smiled. “Of course, Your Highness, but I was merely asking which you would like first.”

“Uh, I don’t know about these guys,” Dean answered, waving a hand in their direction, “but I think I’ll go with bathe, eat, sleep.”

Castiel nodded his assent, as did the others. Elmienne nodded and led them all upstairs, to the top floor.

“Nothing but the best of rooms for our King, his brother, his sister-in-law and his friends,” she explained. “The five of you will be regarded as legends— heroes!”

Eileen and Castiel traded uncomfortable looks. The Winchesters did the same, but Jess appeared pouty. “Oh, yeah, everyone looks up to the sidelined pregnant chick,” she muttered.

Sam rested a hand atop her head. “Our baby will. And you're not going to be pregnant forever, you know. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you to do heroic things. You could open up schools, hospitals, anything you wanted.”

Jess smiled slightly. “I guess we are loaded now.”

They reached the 7th floor. Servants were already waiting outside the doors to assist them, and now Castiel was _very_ uncomfortable. He wondered how much they would feel compelled to help with and shuddered.

Elmienne directed Dean to the second door on the right, Sam and Jess to the second door on the left. Castiel was given the room next to Dean’s where a woman who looked like she could kick his ass waited to… wait on him.

She didn’t speak to him as she opened a door that led to a bathroom practically the size of his old apartment. The entire room was probably the size of an entire floor of Castiel’s building. He was grateful for her silence, but it also left him standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do.

She came back out of the bathroom. “You don’t seem like the type who would appreciate me sticking around to help you with everything,” she said, not sharp but blunt, overwhelmingly honest.

“I appreciate you drawing the bath,” he responded. “I’m sure I would have been unable to figure it out.”

The woman snorted. “No worries. I’d say ‘see you around,’ but I’m thinking the King will be sending us away first chance he gets.”

“None of us are really comfortable with this level of… luxury,” Castiel defended.

“Hey, I’m not complaining. A King should be a warrior, not a spoiled diaper baby.” With that, the dragon left. Castiel stood still for another moment before stripping out of his disgusting clothes and slipping into the bath. He’d probably need another three before he was truly clean— he wasn’t even sure what his true skin color was anymore.

It was strange to hear Dean so commonly referred to as the King. Castiel knew that was who he was— the King. The King, the King, _the King_. His Majesty, Dean Winchester. Castiel knew that. It was just strange to reconcile in his mind the image of a monarch with images of Dean fumbling over his words, tripping over air, stuffing his face with different types of food.

Castiel ached to talk to Dean in private, to get back some aspect of what they used to have. Dean would tell Castiel everything, even when he wasn’t supposed to— everything except his true purpose in Castiel’s life.

The thought sobered Castiel.

Did he trust Dean? Had he forgiven Dean? It was hard to tell, but at the very least Castiel understood his actions and now wanted to understand his feelings. Dean and Castiel both had had no one to confide in this past month— Castiel wanted to know how his friend was coping.

He sighed and reached for the soap. It could wait until after dinner, until morning if it had to, though Castiel suspected in the morning there would be more pressing matters to attend to.

After bathing himself thoroughly , Castiel found fresh clothing in the drawers of the dresser his room housed, all far too colorful for his liking. He settled on a blue shirt, a black tunic, and soft yellow pants. It would be just his luck to go downstairs in search of food and find Dean in all black, looking Kingly and professional.

Luckily, that was not the case. Dean was bedecked in an orange shirt, a pink tunic, and green pants. Castiel winced as soon as he saw him.

“You could lure ships to sea,” he teased, taking a seat next to him. Dyaldee sat across from him, elbow on the table and chin in his hand. Mozrath chatted with Eileen next to him and Eileen, too, was an explosion of color. The dragons were not dull people, apparently.

“Yeah, well you're… shut up, you look like a bumblebee.”

“I happen to like bumblebees.”

“Of course you do.”

After dinner, when he returned to his room, he was shocked to find all of his belongings there. His clothes, his books… that was really all Castiel had. Dean had done this, made sure his things stayed out of the reach of Crowley, no matter how insignificant they were.

Castiel left the pile in his room and slipped over to the room next to his, rapping softly on the door.

“Yeah?” came Dean’s voice, tired but content.

Castiel eased the door open. Dean’s belongings had been transported as well, though it was mostly just clothes and they were shoved over more towards the wall. Dean’s room was similar to Castiel’s, but the obvious difference was that the bed was bigger. King-sized, versus his queen-sized.

“Hello, Dean,” he said quietly. Dean was sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows propped on his knees and twirling his sword around dangerously close to his head.

Dean looked up. “Hey, Cas,” he responded, standing and setting the sword against the wall. “Need something?”

Castiel hesitated. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say. “I… wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Castiel shrugged. “Anything.”

Dean smiled. “Really did miss me, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

Dean’s smile slipped a bit, but he sat back down on his bed, facing Castiel. “Really?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Yeah, but… why?”

Castiel sighed and closed the door, pressing his back against it. The question was valid, but he didn’t have an answer, not an innocent one. “You were someone I saw everyday,” he started slowly, “and then you were just… gone.” Castiel didn’t tell him that he was the _only_ company Castiel had had; Dean already knew that. Castiel didn’t mention exactly what it was about Dean that made him miss him.

Mostly, it was this. Sitting together, talking about anything that came to mind.

There was a lot on Castiel’s mind.

Dean tugged at his sleeves. “Yeah. Listen, Cas, I don’t know if I can say this enough, but… I’m sorry.”

“You're forgiven, Dean,” Castiel told him, the truth of it apparent to him in the same moment it was to Dean. “I understand. It was out of your hands.”

“No,” Dean said, “it wasn’t. We could have figured out another way, if I—”

“You did figure out another way, Dean.”

“Yeah, but… look at you,” Dean said, finally looking up to meet Castiel’s eyes and gesturing a hand at his entire body. “You're stick-thin, man.”

“Not as thin as I could have been, if it weren’t for you.”

Dean shook his head. “I should’ve checked on you more often.”

“What’s done is done.”

Dean sighed but thankfully dropped it. Castiel pushed off from the door and sat on the floor in front of the bed. Dean joined him without even thinking about it.

“Are you okay? This is all kinda… a bit much.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “The only truly shocking thing was learning of your true identity, Your Highness.”

Dean winced. “Please don’t. I’m still the same guy I’ve always been, just... in charge of more people.”

Castiel smirked. “What is your issue with using your title?”

Dean huffed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not an issue. But you're my friend, and I’m not, like, better than you all of the sudden.”

“I understand,” Castiel assured him. “I am wondering, though, what you're going to do when you have your throne?”

Dean shrugged. “I mean… I haven’t really thought about it. I could—I kind of want to expand the Guard. Make it bigger? Everyone’s crazy overworked. And I was thinking, you know, Eureva’s a big country and it’s kind of dumb that _one_ person does _all_ the work for the _whole thing._ I know Crowley hasn’t done shit except look for artifacts in like thirty years, but what about Kings and Queens before him who actually, you know, did stuff? Maybe every town could have, like, a mini King.”

“A Duke,” Castiel said blandly, “or Duchess. Other countries have been using them for years.”

Dean’s face lit up. “Awesome! I’ll figure out how that works, then. I’m gonna do the same thing with the Guard. I shouldn’t have—” Dean paused. “The Captain shouldn’t have to write out schedules for people a hundred miles away.”

“And you say you haven’t thought about it that much.” Castiel smiled fondly.

Dean shrugged. “The whole country’s fucked up, and not just ‘cause of Crowley.”

Castiel nodded absently, staring off at the window behind Dean. “You're going to be a good King.”

“So everyone keeps saying, but I guess we’ll just have to find out,” Dean grumbled.

Castiel flicked his gaze back to him. “You don’t want to be King?”

“It’s never been an option for me. I don’t know what it’s going to be like, what I’ll be allowed to do.”

“You're the King, Dean. You get to do whatever you want to do.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t. I don’t think people will care much about your methods if you're improving the country, improving lives.”

Dean sighed heavily, leaning forward. Castiel could almost see the weight on his shoulders, the worry. There was no guarantee that Dean would even survive this fight for his throne. The thought tightened Castiel’s throat.

“What about you?” Dean asked, raising his head. “What are you gonna do if we win?”

Castiel looked up towards the ceiling, leaning his weight back on his hands. “It depends. If I get my powers back, I’ll heal people, obviously. If I don’t…”

“You know you don’t need powers to heal people, right? You could just study and work in the med bay.”

Castiel had never actually considered that, but Dean was right. People without magic healed people all the time; why couldn’t he? “That’s true. Perhaps I will.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, Castiel staring at the ceiling, Dean staring at his lap. Outside, it was drizzling slightly.

Tomorrow, they would have to begin planning how exactly they were to take down Crowley. Perhaps Dean would even begin to train Sam, Castiel, and Eileen, though Castiel really did need to regain his weight. He wasn’t sure how long that would take, though something told him it would be longer than it took to lose it.

Castiel could still train, though. He’d just have to eat more than he normally would.

“Hey, Cas?”  
Castiel looked back down, to Dean. He was still sitting hunched over, playing at the sleeves of his shirt. “Yes?”

Dean bit his bottom lip and rolled it between his teeth for a moment before letting it go. “Can I kiss you?”

Castiel’s heart stopped and he forgot what thinking even was.

Dean’s very soul was etched onto his face— fear and longing and hope. Castiel knew those feelings, could feel them reflected in his own soul.

There was still much left to say between the two of them, but Castiel didn’t care as he leaned in, bringing a hand up to cradle Dean’s head as he pressed their lips softly together.

Dean sighed into his mouth before immediately taking action, pulling Castiel closer until he was sitting in his lap, hands resting on his waist. Dean’s body was solid yet soft and warm under him, and Castiel raised his other hand to the side of Dean’s face, stroking a thumb across his cheekbone.

The kiss was soft, unrushed. They had time, Castiel realized. Time to talk and train and win the battle against Crowley. They had time.

Castiel fell asleep that night with Dean’s arms wrapped around him, his breath ghosting through his hair as the King slept. It was the best sleep he’d ever had in his life, though the softness of the bed had nothing to do with it. They could have been laying on a bed made of broken glass and Castiel still would have slept sounder and happier than he ever had in his life.

 

 

Oddly enough, life became a system, a dance with steps they all fell into effortlessly. It was almost a sort of peace. Outside the dragon village, the world fell apart, but inside, they were safe. Happy, were it not for the horrors in the capital.

Dean had sent away all the servants in the inn beside the cooks and the cleaning crew so they could have relative quiet while they developed their plan. Dyaldee came in occasionally to give them his input. Sometimes he dragged Dean away to take care of some other issue within the village, trying to give him some sort of idea on how to run a community before Dean had run an entire country. Mozrath was around, too; Castiel was quite fond of her.

Amaia and Tokliva hung out as well, dropping in in their human forms after school.

Amaia in particular took to Castiel. A couple weeks into their stay in the village, Castiel was frustrated that Dean was still making him take it easier than Sam or Eileen.

“Cas, you lost twenty pounds in a month,” he’d explained. “That’s not normal. That isn’t supposed to happen and it’s gonna take a while, okay?”

Castiel had walked away. He understood Dean’s concern, but he was not fragile, and hated being treated as such.

Amaia had found him sulking against a cherry tree, as they’d been practicing in the garden. She and her brother sometimes joined them, learning simple things and sparring with Dean, two against one.

“He doesn’t think you're weak,” Amaia told him. “He’s worried.”

“He refuses to push me,” Castiel gritted out. “He’s all about ‘the comfort zone’.”

“Can you blame him? He doesn’t want you in the thick of it yet. Sam is lucky that his wife is pregnant and can’t fight.”

Castiel couldn’t pretend that he’d rather Dean stayed out of harm’s way as well, stayed here.

Amaia did talk to Dean as well, though. Castiel never knew what she said to him, but he started pushing Castiel just a bit harder.

It was not just retrieving the artifacts that they had to worry about. The first time Sam and Dean— Eileen had been waylaid with a flu, and Castiel still unfit for castle-sieging— travelled to Lavendel to retrieve another artifact, they returned with a large group of Dean’s friends. The heist had been a simple matter of infiltrating the castle via hiding in a food shipment and nabbing an artifact. However, on their way back into the forest to meet Dyaldee, they stumbled upon a group of familiar faces.

After realizing what had transpired the night Castiel was freed from prison, Crowley had fired everyone in the Guard who was close to Dean after interrogating them all intensively. Meg, Charlie, Kevin, Benny, Andrea, Jo, Donna, Jody, and Cole (the Celestial who’d murdered two people but had since been mysteriously cured of the madness), had barely been on the streets for a week when the Winchesters found them and brought them to the dragon village, barely a month after Castiel’s prison break.

Two weeks later, Sam, Dean, Castiel, Meg, Charlie, and Benny returned to Lavendel. Dean and Castiel, however, were there to find more people to join their cause. Infiltration was left to their friends, who would be entering the castle dressed as servants. They had no doubt that Crowley had moved the artifacts by this point, but they had a few good guesses as to where he would place them next, so the crew were planning on being in there for a while.

Castiel had mentioned the idea to him that first day after they’d arrived in the village, the day after Castiel had kissed him and spent the night pressed against him. Dean had smiled and held his hand all day.

“Cas, how many people _do_ you know? No, wait, scratch that. How many people do you know that would be willing to uproot their lives and come take part in a rebellion?” Dean had asked. His arm had been slung lazily over Castiel’s shoulders.

“Enough. I can make a list, if you’d like.”

It wasn’t a long list, but it wasn’t shabby, either. A grand total of five people, which would made their team eighteen. Of course, Jess wouldn’t be fighting at any point in the future. But everyone else, including Benny’s wife, would be ready by the time they went to kill the King.

Krissy Chambers was the daughter of Castiel’s old landlord. He’d caught her writing a number of angry letters to the King and arguing with her father about Crowley’s lack of initiative. She was young, but angry. They didn’t even have to explain Crowley’s true identity before she agreed to join them.

Anna Milton was the girl Castiel had saved as a child, right before his magic had been taken. She had been skeptical, but after hearing their story, she agreed. Plus, she owed Castiel a debt.

Samandriel was a boy who had worked with Castiel in the palace before being whipped for falling asleep on the job. He was more than willing to follow them into rebellion.

Chuck Shurley was a journalist who had far too many scathing things to say about Crowley to be pleased with his rule. Honestly though, Castiel was sure he only agreed to join them because he was terrified of Dean.

Finally, Balthazar. Castiel’s ex boyfriend who’d cheated on him with _several_ prostitutes. Neither of them were particularly thrilled to see him.

He opened the door with a bottle of whiskey in hand. _Figures_. He smirked upon seeing Castiel and Dean’s hostile gaze. “Castiel Elliot,” he drawled, taking a swig. “Never thought I’d see you at my door again.”

Castiel huffed and clenched Dean’s hand. Balthazar couldn’t see, as their cloaks hid the lower halves of their arms, but he did not miss how closely they were standing and raised a single eyebrow.

“Balthazar,” Castiel greeted. “May we come in?”

Balthazar studied his face for a moment before glancing to Dean, drinking him in as well. “Do mine eyes deceive me, or is this Dean Winchester?” Dean only glared.

“Yes,” Castiel responded. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Killing Crowley.”

Balthazar grinned. “Say no more, I’m in.”

“Pack your things and meet us in the Hale Woods, off Crest Avenue.”

Balthazar closed the door. Dean and Castiel turned around and walked off the porch, still hand in hand, and headed to the forest.

“I don’t like that guy,” Dean grumbled.

“Really? That’s shocking.” Prior to their relationship, Castiel had known Dean was protective, but he hadn’t realized just _how_ overprotective he was. There was something to be said about the fact that they were constantly in danger and Castiel wasn’t exactly 100% capable of handling himself if it came down to physical altercation, so maybe Dean was being appropriately protective. Sometimes it was frustrating, but now it warmed his chest and brought a smile to his face.

“Shut up. He looked _way_ too smug.”

Castiel laughed and kissed Dean on the cheek. The street was empty— this was the West side, after all, and now that Dean was gone no one much bothered with it, aside from occasionally ransacking the place, looking for them.

Lavendel was going to be very happy to have Dean back.

By the time they reached the meeting spot, Anna, Krissy, Chuck, and Samandriel were already there with bags, waiting. None of them said anything for fear of being heard, caught.

Balthazar strolled up shortly, and he was gearing up to say something when they heard running footsteps coming towards them.

Sam, holding a crown in his hands and bearing a cut on his cheek, came into view. The others trailed after him, also looking worse for wear. “Go!” Sam shouted. The unmistakable sounds of soldier’s boots followed them.

They went, all running into the woods, Dean and Castiel leading the way towards where they were meeting Dyaldee. Him carrying so many people and belongings would be a bit of a challenge, but they would have to manage. They didn’t have time to get half of them in the air while the other half kept running to meet Mozrath. They’d just have to squish and hold on tight.

None of them spoke as they sprinted through the forest, Dean holding tight to Castiel’s hand so he wouldn’t fall behind. They didn’t stop once Dyaldee was in sight, just clambered up as fast as they could. Even the new recruits asked no questions, not yet. The five of them climbed up behind Dean and the thieves came after.

Dyaldee rose into flight just as several members of the Guard burst into the clearing, shouting and waving their swords uselessly.

Dean sighed and rested his forehead on the back of Castiel’s neck. Flying hadn’t gotten any easier for him, though he’d managed to not scream as much. Castiel chuckled softly and squeezed his hand.

They returned to the inn, letting the five new people get settled in before telling the story yet again, about Crowley and Dean and Lawrence and Lucifer. They all believed it readily, and agreed to help, starting with training in the morning.

Everyone was talking, the whole group, including the banished Guard members and the new recruits, even Jess and the dragons. Eileen wasn’t really paying attention, just reading a book, but still, there was a sort of energy in the room, an inspiration.

_Rebellion._

It was heady, and none of them were quite willing to move until Dean stood up and announced he was going to bed. Castiel was sure he was just annoyed with Balthazar. Dean gave him a soft kiss on the temple before heading upstairs. Castiel’s ex raised his eyebrows.

“So,” he started, and Castiel’s stomach dropped, “fucking the King, then, are we?”

“I don’t believe it’s any of your business,” Castiel responded, even as a hush fell over the rest of the group.

Balthazar shrugged nonchalantly, but Castiel saw anger in his eyes. What right did he have to be angry? He hadn’t been part of Castiel’s life for a long time, and when he had, been he’d been drunk, lazy, uncaring, and, oh, right— a cheater. “It’s not. I just think you could do better.”

Everyone stared at him incredulously.

“Better,” Castiel repeated flatly, “than the King.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Come on, Cassie.” Castiel bristled at the nickname but said nothing, just glared. “Being King isn’t everything. Obviously, otherwise we wouldn’t all be sitting here. He seems like a prick to me.”

Sam looked at Cas and shook his head, but Dyaldee growled, standing from the table.

Castiel held up a hand, halting the dragon. Since he’d become Dean’s partner ( _mates_ the dragons often said, but that felt weird to both of them, so they used partner) the dragons tended to obey him. “He’s a prick? Need I remind you of your general personality?”

“At least I know what I am,” Balthazar countered, taking a swig of wine. Same as ever.

Castiel took a breath. Everyone now looked very uncomfortable. “You’ve known Dean for a grand total of _five hours._ What place are you in to pass judgement?”

“I’m walking proof that you're no master of character judgement, either, _Castiel._ I’m sorry, but wasn’t part of your whole story that he threw you in prison for a month?”

Castiel was one more snarky comment away from letting Dyaldee say what he wanted to Balthazar, but he feigned apathy, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sorry, but wasn’t part of _your_ whole story that you cheated on me, several times?”

Balthazar went red as the rest of the jaws around the table dropped. “I apologized for that.”

“If apologies are magic fixes now, I may as well let you know that Dean apologized, too. Much better than you ever did. And at least he had legitimate reasons for wronging me.”

Jess covered her mouth with a hand. Shock or laughter, Castiel couldn’t tell, but he stood from the table. “Goodnight,” he said, which seemed to be dismissal enough for everyone else. Just out of Balthazar’s view, he gave the dragon a smirk and tacked on, “Dyaldee, please do not eat anyone.” Balthazar blanched, and Castiel smiled smugly as he walked to the top floor, Sam, Jess, and Eileen on his heels.

“Dude,” Sam said. “Wow. Your ex boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Damn. He’s kind of an asshole. Like. A huge asshole.”

“I agree.” Castiel stopped at the door to Dean’s— his— _their_ room. Castiel’s original room hadn’t been used much except for when he and Dean were a bit too… busy to make it to the second door on the right. “Goodnight, Sam, Jess.” Castiel signed _goodnight_ to Eileen and barely registered their responses before slipping into the bedroom.

Dean was standing in front of the bed, shirtless, holding the crown of Adam in his hands. He looked up and smiled when Castiel entered. “This thing looks heavy. I don’t know if I can wear one all day.”

“It wouldn’t be all day,” Castiel assured him, stepping forward. “I imagine it’d be quite the inconvenience in the bedroom.”

Dean’s smile grew. “Can’t have that, can we?”

Castiel hummed his agreement and kissed Dean softly, his anger from his earlier confrontation all but dissipating. Dean set the crown on the dresser and threaded his hands through Cas’ hair, rubbing at his temples.

Dean pulled away and studied his face. “You okay? You seem a little tense.”

Castiel shook his head and gave Dean a short kiss. “All I’ll say is that Balthazar should probably train with Meg.”

Dean’s eyes darkened and he pulled away slightly. “Did he say something bad about you? I’ll—”

“No, Dean. He actually had a few things to say about you.”

Dean stopped. Considered Castiel’s words. “He jealous? That makes sense. I’m kind of awesome. Plus, I’ve got you.”

Castiel smiled. “Indeed.”

Dean untangled a hand from Castiel’s hair and tapped his lips. “I love your smile.”

Castiel kissed him. Balthazar was an idiot. It may have taken a while for him to discover, but Dean was secretly very sweet. Doting, even. He gave Castiel his leftovers, his coat when it was too cold, and seemed to move with superhuman speed if Castiel so much as tripped.

Although Dean did often throw food at him and hide his books. He also sometimes emotionally shut down, leaving Castiel to have to poke and prod to get him to open up. No one was perfect.

“I love you,” Castiel said against Dean’s mouth before he could consider his words.

He held his breath as Dean stilled, wondering if he was about to close off again, but Dean only stepped in closer, opening his mouth to Castiel, expressing with his body what he wasn’t able to say in words. The hand that wasn’t in Castiel’s hair found his cheek, cupping his jaw. Castiel took the opportunity to explore Dean’s bare chest with his hands, running his fingers over his ribs, his chest, his abdomen and lower when—

There was a knock at the door. A very urgent knock.

Dean groaned and drew away from Castiel, resting their foreheads together for a moment before going to the door. He jerked it open and on the other side stood Sam, eyes wide and panicked.

“Guys,” he gasped. “Jess, she’s like, having contractions. She’s only five months pregnant!”

Castiel groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Sam, that’s completely normal. She’s not going into labor.” Castiel may have read a few book on pregnancy in his spare time. It may or may not have been precisely for situations like these.

Sam stilled, his panic visibly waning. “Really?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sam, really. They will pass, I assure you. Just rest.”

Sam nodded and backed out of the doorway and into his own room. Dean closed it behind him and turned back to Castiel, shaking his head.

“What do we do if you get pregnant?” Dean teased.

“It’d be quite the scandal.”

“For me or for you?”

Castiel smirked and shed his shirt, tossing it toward Dean’s face. Dean sputtered and threw it back as Castiel took off his pants as well. He yawned hugely and stretched his arms over his head. “Well. Goodnight, Dean,” he said, blowing out the lantern and climbing into bed.

“Tease.”

Dean slid into bed behind him, pulling Castiel towards him. Castiel turned so they faced each other, legs intertwined and breath in each other’s mouths. Dean tucked Castiel’s head under his chin and Castiel slung an arm over his waist. Dean sighed happily, broad arms warming Castiel more than any blanket ever could.

Right as Castiel was on the verge of sleep, Dean whispered in his ear, “Cas?”

Castiel made a vague sound of acknowledgment.

“You're gonna stick around, right? Once this is all over? When we get back to Lavendel?”

Castiel opened his eyes and tilted his head back to look at Dean. It was hard to see in the dark, but his face was open, vulnerable. “Of course, Dean. Why would I go anywhere?”

Dean nodded, and Castiel snuggled back into his pillow of a partner, falling asleep within seconds to the beat of his heart.

 

 

Life moved at a faster pace. By the Winter Solstice, they had four artifacts in their possession, leaving Crowley with three. Castiel gained weight, slowly but surely, most of it muscle from his training. He still wasn’t near his previous size, however. And though he couldn’t exactly put them into practice, he now knew 101 ways to incapacitate a person.

It was hard, sometimes, to believe they had been at the mountain village an entire two months. In those two months, Crowley had turned Lavendel into a city of madness. Crime on the West side was back in full swing, but it had been born into the other sides of the city as well. Mostly soldiers abusing their power. Where Crowley had found so many people willing and enjoying to just go out and be awful, they had no idea, but it wasn’t good. The only upside was that it made the castle easier to break into. But Castiel could see every time Dean returned from the capital the weight on his shoulders. He rarely talked about what it made him think, not right away at least.

Dyaldee had insisted that he go undercover in the city and see what Crowley was doing, observe his guards to better know what they were up against. Which meant that Dean was away more, and when he came back, the first thing he would do would be kiss Castiel fervently and drag him up to their bedroom, damn whoever else was there. Afterwards, he would whisper the things he’d seen men he’d trained do to others. His very own people, people he had been born to protect, defend.

“You are protecting them,” Castiel would always say. “They just don’t know it yet.”

The dragons celebrated the Winter Solstice differently than the humans did. They believed in staying indoors to let the Earth do its work on the seasons. So that was what they did, everyone in their rooms before sundown.

Castiel leaned against the wooden wall of the bedroom, a book in his lap. Dean was cleaning. He didn’t do it often, but when he did, he threw himself into it with a fervor. He’d disinfect and wipe down every surface. Sometimes he would even insist on cleaning Castiel. It wasn’t like Castiel was going to complain.

Now, he set down his broom and collapsed dramatically onto the floor, landing his head in Castiel’s lap. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean. Do you need something?”

“I’m bored.”

“I fail to see how that’s my problem,” Castiel retorted, unable to prevent a smirk.

“Ass. It’s your problem because I’ll just sit here and annoy you until you entertain me,” Dean threatened.

“You're rather high-maintenance.”

“Caaaaas,” Dean whined, headbutting Castiel’s stomach. “I’m bored.”

“So you’ve said. You could try reading a book.”

“Lame.”

“Then go to bed.”

“The sun is, like, _barely_ down.”

Castiel huffed, shutting his book and looking down at Dean, who grinned up innocently at him. “What do you want me to do, Dean?”

“I don’t know. What do _you_ want to do?”

“I want to read my book.”

“Besides that.”

“Why do you ask me what I want to do and then tell me I can’t do that?”

Dean sighed, looking up at him with what could only be classified as ‘puppy dog eyes’. Castiel would not concede to that face. He reopened his book and Dean accepted defeat, turning his face into Castiel’s stomach and closing his eyes. Castiel dropped one hand into his hair and started playing with it as he read, twisting the blond strands between his fingers.

“Is it wrong,” Dean said suddenly, “that I almost wish we could just stay here? Let the world deal with itself?”

Castiel’s hand stilled except for his thumb, which stayed sweeping gentle arcs through Dean’s hairline. “I don’t know. This place is safe. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be safe.”

“Shouldn’t I want everyone to be safe? I mean, the people in Lavendel? They’re _my_ people, and they’re suffering. Sometimes I feel like we’re just _sitting here_ and... sometimes I wish we didn’t have to help them.” Dean sat up, putting his back to Castiel, but the words still flowed. “Doesn’t that make me a shitty King?”

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, not trying to turn him back around, but standing and going to sit before him. “You forget that before anything else, even before you’re King, you are human. And humans are not perfect. I know you, and I know that you want to help the many, but the people here are just as important to you. Sam, Jessica, their baby.”

“You,” Dean interrupted, perhaps sensing that Castiel wasn’t going to include himself.

He smiled softly. “Me. You're scared of what this battle will do to us.”

Dean blew out a breath. “Yeah, I am. But—”

Castiel took Dean’s face in his hands, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “But you're still fighting. You're not choosing to stay here and give up. You're taking a risk. That’s the _definition_ of bravery, Dean.”

Dean sighed, his face slightly squished between Castiel’s hands. “You're making it really hard for me to hate myself, Cas.”

“Good,” Castiel said and kissed him on the forehead, between his eyes. “Now leave me alone, I’m trying to read.”

Dean snorted and shoved Castiel back behind him so he could lay in his lap once more. The King stared at the ceiling as Castiel read, looking to be simply lost in thought.

Castiel couldn’t help thinking that he agreed— he, too, sometimes wished they could stay here forever, stay in moments like these when it was just them and the silence, warm against each other’s bodies. He wished they could stay in the moments where it was all of them together, laughing and joking, safe in the magic of the dragons. He worried that even if they won, and everyone returned to Lavendel, things wouldn’t be the same. There would be new issues, new worries, and everything would be different. There was a chance that it would be different in a good way, but they would no longer have a mission, a purpose. At least, not one nearly as important as saving the world.

Despite everything, they were happy here. Weightless, in a way. They had a goal and they were moving towards it with impressive success. They had no way of knowing how their endeavors in the capital would go.

Castiel tried not to worry about it, but still it gnawed at his mind. He put his book down with a heavy sigh and shifted so that he lay between Dean and the wall, forehead pressed to his temple and arm across his chest.

Dean didn’t move except to wrap his arms around Castiel’s shoulder and pull him closer. If anyone would have walked in then, they would have found a King and his lover lying on the floor, eyes wide open and troubled, but still holding each other close.

 

 

Months passed. Three, to be exact, with an artifact stolen each month. Castiel had no hand in the actual stealing of anything, but he was influential in the planning of each theft, which eased his frustration to some degree. He was grateful when a week before their planned storming of the castle, Dean deemed him healthy enough to fight.

“But,” he said, turning to face him. Spring was coming again, and while the air outside wasn’t warm, it wasn’t so cold that they couldn’t train outside anymore. “You have to fight me first.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Fight you?”

Dean nodded, a smirk on his face. “Mhm. Fight me.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Did you make everyone else fight you?”

“Nope. Special treatment.”

Castiel crossed his arms and pouted. “Dean.”

“Nope, sorry, Cas. You're not going out there until you prove yourself. I’m not saying you have to beat me, just get closer than anyone else.” Castiel furthered his pout. Dean sighed and stepped back into his space, resting his hands on his elbows. “Look, Cas, I won’t be able to protect you out there.”

“You don’t—”

“Just—” Dean put his hands up at his shoulders. “Humor me.”

Castiel sighed. “Fine.”

Dean smiled and squeezed his arms before stepping away again. “Okay, rules. Don’t go for my face, I know it’s your second favorite part of me.” Dean winked. “Also probably shouldn’t come for your first favorite part, though if you do it’s your loss.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “No weapons. At the moment. So if you have any daggers up your sleeves, just drop ‘em now.”

“I understand. I hope you're not banking on me going easy on you just because I love you.”

“I would be downright _offended,_ Castiel.”

Castiel wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar sound of his full name in Dean’s mouth, and that was when he struck, aiming a subtle kick at Castiel’s shoulder. He barely dodged in time. Dean grinned but did not pause, stepping in with a punch in the same place he’d aimed the kick.

Castiel knocked his fist out of the air just as Dean swept a leg at Castiel’s ankles. Castiel kicked him in the shin hard enough that he went down, but he grabbed his forearms just in time to bring Castiel down with him. Unfortunately for him, Castiel landed on top.

He smirked. “I believe this means I’ve won, yes?”

Dean raised an eyebrow and before Castiel could register what had happened Dean had flipped them over so that he was on top of Castiel.

“Get a room!” Sam called from across the field.

Neither of them paid any mind to him. Dean’s knees were framing Castiel’s hips, his hands pinning Castiel’s biceps to the ground.

There was only one option.

Castiel drove his knee upwards into Dean’s groin and flung him off him. Dean groaned and fell to the side while Castiel scrambled to his feet, but Dean grabbed his ankle and yanked him back down.

“Elegant,” Castiel grumbled as Dean held him in place with a knee on the small of his back, wrists held above his head with only one of Dean’s hands.

Dean lowered his head to Castiel’s. “Solid effort, Cas, really.”

Castiel swung the side of his head into Dean’s. Fuck the rules.

However, he only succeeded in laying with his back on Dean’s front, where Dean could easily loop an arm behind his elbows, locking him in place. Dean rocked them forward and nestled his head on Castiel’s shoulder, leaving him without enough room to gather enough momentum to hit him hard enough to do anything.

“Is this how close you get with everyone you fight?” Castiel asked.

Dean laughed, the sound low and tickling his ear. “Nah. I use a sword, remember? Whole other game.”

Castiel huffed, trying to wiggle his arms free, but Dean’s grip didn’t fail. “Then what was the point of this?”

“I didn’t think you’d let me wrestle you unless I pretended it was for very professional survival reasons.”

“Assbutt.”

Dean laughed again, louder this time. “Assbutt? What kind of insult is that?”

“Uh, guys?” Sam called out, pausing in his sword fight with Jo. “I was joking before, but, like, either get up or actually get a room.”

“We have a room,” Castiel responded. Dean snorted but withdrew, letting Castiel up. His temple was already bruised and Castiel grazed over it with his fingers. “I’m sorry.”

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, don’t be. I’m impressed, actually.”

Castiel’s mouth quirked up in half a smile. “I assume you are going to make me _actually_ fight you?”

“Yeah, but just for practice. I doubt I’d get away with leaving you here.”

“You’d be correct.”

Dean picked up his scabbard from where it lay in the grass, pulling the black sword free from it in a smooth stroke. He tossed the casing down and picked up another sword, this one the standard steel everyone had.

“Okay, I know you’ve used these before, but I’m just gonna remind you that you're not actually trying to kill me.” Dean waited for a nod then handed Castiel the sword, taking his place a few steps away. “Go!”

They didn’t stop until the sun went down, ending up slightly bruised and battered. Castiel suspected they would be having a lot of days like that, until the final day when they would be resting and going over final plans.

After dinner, Castiel found himself sitting in the garden with Sam and Jess, idly picking at flowers and weaving them into crowns. Amaia had taught him and Jess in the early days of their stay, when Castiel was too weak to do much and Jess was, well, less pregnant than she was now. In fact, Jess was set to give birth very soon. Sam was praying that she would either go into labor before they left for Lavendel or after they returned.

Of course, when they returned, it would only be to fetch Jess, pack up, say goodbye and then turn around and go right back to the capital.

Jess plopped her finished crown onto Sam’s head. “Prince Samuel, you look dashing.”

Sam smiled at her and left the crown on. With any luck, soon he would be wearing a real one. With any luck, soon enough they all would.

Castiel had asked Dean, one night, who he would be presented as once Dean was officially King. What they would be presented as.

“You're my mistress. Obviously.”

“Dean.”

Dean had chuckled and poked Castiel in the side. “I don’t know. Whatever people wanna see us as. All I know is that when we get there and I have to stand on some pedestal or shit and explain what the fuck just happened to everyone, you're gonna be there with me. If me and Sam and Jess have to get bowed to, then so do you.”

Castiel had fallen quiet for a minute. “You're the King. Your lovers… will not be taken lightly.”

“I know. Are you saying you're not in this for the long haul?”

“I was just making sure you were.”

“Good. ‘Cause you're stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

Jess settled her next flower crown on Castiel’s head. Castiel had barely finished his first.

“Hm. King Castiel. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Jess nudged Castiel in the ribs lightly, a teasing smile on her face.

Castiel took a flower from his pile and tucked it into her golden curls. “That’s a long way off.”

“Can I plan your wedding?”

Sam snorted. “Please. Dean would never let you anywhere near his wedding.”

Jess laughed, but Castiel focused on his flower crown. The couple continued chatting as Castiel finished and placed the finished product on Jessica’s head.

“Preparing for the future?” Meg snarked as she slid onto the bench behind them. She bowed as much as she could while sitting, adding in a dramatic hand wave. “Your Highnesses.”

“Hello, Meg,” Castiel chirped, gathering more flowers to weave as Jess walked Sam through the process.

“Castiel. So you _can_ speak.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. Meg had never quite forgiven him for his stint in the cells, if only because it was annoying to talk to someone she could never be sure was listening.

“Do you need something?”

“Fresh air,” Meg responded, stretching back out on the bench. Castiel finished his flower crown and put it on Jess’ belly.

“For the baby,” he explained. “Future King or Queen.”

“No kids for you and Dean?” Jess pouted.

“Even if they adopted, our kid would still be the heir,” Sam answered, fingers fumbling over a flower.

“It’s all about the blood,” Meg commented.

Castiel nodded, thinking about his own blood. He could be a week away from regaining his power. He tried not to get his hopes up too high, but… he wanted it back. It was like he’d lost a limb, or like reaching for a memory he couldn’t quite grasp, trying to blink but suddenly forgetting how it was done.

Could it drive him mad, trying to reach for something that was gone? How many nights could he wake up from nightmares of hollow, empty spaces before his entire being became one?

On those rare nights, Dean would whisper reassurances into Castiel’s ear. He’d survived this long without it, it wasn’t all that he was, all he was worth, having or not having power didn’t define him. He knew this.

But Castiel missed it.

Meg, seeming to read his thoughts, suddenly spoke. “What do you think Crowley did with all those Celestials’ powers?”

Sam paused in his flower crown weaving and shrugged. “Could he have destroyed them?” Something cold lurched in Castiel’s gut.

“Maybe, but he wouldn’t. He likes power too much. But I doubt he could use it, it’s wired to specific people, right?”

Dean plopped down out of nowhere in front of Cas. “Hey, where’d you guys go? And, uh… what’s with the flower crowns?”

Castiel placed one on his head. “Jess has a skill.”

Meg snorted. “We were thinking about what Crowley might have done with all that Celestial magic.”

“Oh.” Dean thought for a second. “He keeps it, right? But how… how does he hold that kind of thing?”

“The practice he used for taking our powers is not a new one,” Castiel mentioned. He’d spent a lot of time researching the subject. “It’s been done since Celestials have existed, and it’s easier than you would think. Pure glass can contain the… magic. I don’t know why, but it works.”

Dean furrowed his brow, the sight a bit ridiculous with the flowers on his head. “Hmm. We’ll look for them, Cas, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, but for now,” Sam said, stretching, “I think we should hit the hay.”

Dean nodded and stood, helping Castiel to his feet. It took Meg and Sam together to haul Jess up.

Castiel looked around at his friends, his family, and tried not to wonder if this was the last night they would all be here and happy together.

 

 

Castiel curled his hand in and out of a fist nervously. Everyone was running around the courtyard frantically, trying to tie up one last thing. To make sure their swords were sharpened, to add another weapon to their belts. Dean and Castiel stood to the side, watching the madness unfold. Eventually, the team would assemble before them, but they were in no rush yet.

The pair had been up before anyone else. Their things were already packed in their room, swords sharpened, and chests strapped with extra knives.

Castiel was worried. While they wouldn’t exactly be marching in without a clue, the road ahead was murky. The Royal Guard employed around fifty people, but there was no chance all would be there to fight in the battle. Some would be sleeping, others would be too preoccupied with other tasks to join in. Dean estimated thirty soldiers would be there, at the most. That was still twelve more people than they had. Dean had also pointed out that Crowley couldn’t possibly have any idea what their number was. He could send soldiers to other entrances of the castle in case there were more coming in through.

There wouldn’t be. When Dean suggested that all eighteen of them walk straight through the front door, ready to fight, they’d all thought he was crazy.

Dean had shaken his head at their protests. “Crowley’s an idiot. The Guard was already spread thin, but Crowley was so confident in his power that he always told me we had ‘all we needed’. There’s just not enough of them to bother with sneaking in. We hit him with all we got right up front because they don’t have any other sides, either.”

There had still been much debate on it, but ultimately they all came to agree it was the best option. They may have been outnumbered, but they did have the element of surprise. Plus, Crowley had fired all of his very best soldiers, all of whom ended up training more soldiers to form their small army.

Castiel wished their victory was a bit more assured— all they really had was their skills and faith.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that Jess hasn’t had the baby yet. Because now Sam’s all freaked that he’s gonna miss it, but he’d never leave them behind if he’d gotten to hold it.”

Castiel followed his gaze to where Sam was saying goodbye to his wife, her head tucked under his chin. Sam knelt to kiss her stomach before wiping away her tears and walking towards Dean and Castiel.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in on Dean’s right, voice thick. “Are you gonna, like… corral them?”

“Eh, sooner or later.”

Sam met Castiel’s eyes and shook his head.

Dean did corral them, eventually. Fifteen people lined up in front of the three of them, all with varying levels of panic evident on their faces. Meg looked bored. Charlie seemed excited, which was slightly concerning to Castiel. Jo and Kevin kept flipping their swords from hand to hand. Andrea fiddled with the rings on her fingers while Benny kept a hand on her shoulder, to support her or himself Castiel couldn’t tell, but he looked to be fairly determined himself. Cole and Balthazar were bickering over something Castiel didn’t bother listening to. Krissy looked positively _angry_ and Castiel was glad they’d recruited her. Anna hung back from the group a bit, seeming reluctant to finish what they’d started. Samandriel stared up at the sky, lips moving in silent prayer while Chuck tapped his fingers against his thigh rapidly. Jody, Donna, and Eileen were all taking deep breaths, but they did look ready as they could be. Jess and Mozrath stood behind the line, the dragon holding Jessica up as she sobbed.

“Okay, people,” Dean started, “I’m not going over the plan again because if you don’t know it by now, you never will. We’re literally just walking in, it’s not that hard. _Do not_ kill anyone if you can help it. Even Crowley. I’m taking that bastard out myself.

“Cas, Charlie, Kevin, Eileen, Cole, Benny, Andrea, and myself are going first. Dyaldee’s gonna drop us about a mile away from the castle and then come back for the rest of you. Balthazar, I _saw_ that.” Balthazar glared at Dean. Dean glared back, and Castiel frowned but decided he did not need to know. Cole smirked smugly.

“Sam and Krissy are gonna walk up and take out the two gate guards, and we all gotta get in quick _,_ before any of the City Guard can get in with us. Meg will lock the gates. Then we march through the front door and take out the guards there before going straight forward and making a left to get to the throne room, where Crowley will be. There will be civilians there, but also Crowley’s personal entourage, who will attack as soon as they see us.”

Krissy raised her hand. “Don’t they have bows and arrows?”

Dean shook his head. “When Crowley shut down trade, we stopped getting the right kind of supplies to make ‘em, so no. They have swords. I don’t know how long this will take, but again, there are only so many guards.” Once again, he turned his attention to the whole group. “Are we ready?” No one responded. “I’ll take that as a yes. Dyaldee?”

Dyaldee was standing maybe fifty yards away, as a human, but he shifted into a dragon and was suddenly a lot closer. Castiel took a breath. It was finally time, after months of training and practicing and planning, they were on their way back to the capital to reclaim what rightfully belonged to the Winchesters.

Dean linked his fingers through Castiel’s and squeezed as they marched forward to board the dragon. Dean climbed up first, Castiel following. Eileen slid in behind him, not even bothering to hold onto him just yet. Once all nine of them were seated, Dyaldee spread his wings and took flight. Castiel looped his arms around Dean’s stomach and rested his cheek between his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes as they took off. He wasn’t tired, but the rush of air in his eyes was painful.

After a relatively quick flight, the nine of them were dropped in an unremarkable thicket of trees and all sat down to wait. Dean leaned against Castiel’s shoulder and played with his hand. No one spoke. The silence was heavy, tense, electric. Castiel imagined that the other half of their group in the village were helping the servants load luggage into the same carriage Dean, Castiel, Sam, Jess, and Eileen had ridden in and the one Mozrath would carry back home.

Thinking of Lavendel as home was strange after all this time away, but the capital would always be where Castiel belonged. He’d been born there, grown up there, and had never left until Dean broke him out of jail. Castiel loved the dragon village, but being with Dean was the main reason. As long as Dean was with him, Castiel felt he could be happy anywhere.

The dark shadow of a dragon passed over their heads and then alighted to their left. As one, Castiel’s group stood to meet the other halfway.

The Winchester brothers stopped once they reached each other and took twin breaths before turning as one and leading their posse towards the castle, Dean with one hand stretched behind him, fingers linked with Castiel’s. There was no rousing speech, no last reminder, just the crunch of boots on snow and the steady hope of the Spring on the horizon.

 

 

Getting into the castle was a breeze. The City Guard was nowhere to be seen, and the Royal Guard soldiers were distracted, talking excitedly about the Equinox celebration.

They’d forgotten about the Equinox, lost track of time in the midst of their training. It wouldn’t make much of a difference. The sun was still high in the sky, but they would have to move a little faster.

The castle was eerily silent when they walked in. Castiel was unsurprised by this; he remembered being a servant on the Equinox. Everyone was either in the kitchens preparing food or outside readying the garden for the ritual. There was no one in the entryway to bear witness to a dozen and a half people armed to the teeth and ready to reclaim the throne of their country.

Dean released Castiel’s hand and drew his sword. The rest of them followed suit.

Sam and Dean led the way, and they were uninterrupted all the way to the throne room, where Dean kicked open the door (Castiel was certain it was unlocked, but it wasn’t like they could just _sneak in)_ and charged forward.

Crowley was sitting on the throne, looking bored. The room was lined with about fifteen guards, but more would come. Two of Crowley’s advisors stood before him, brows furrowed.

Dean, Sam, and Castiel walked forward, halfway to the throne, while the others spread around the room in a semicircle of sorts. The guards drew their swords but looked conflicted, looking from Dean to Meg to Crowley, awaiting instruction.

Crowley looked up from his long roll of parchment, seeming bored, truthfully. “Hello, boys.”

“Hey,” Dean bit out, face a stony mask. “I think you're in my chair.”

Crowley tossed the parchment aside and stood. “You’ll have to take it from me, _Captain._ Or should I say Prince? I did a little research on your family history. Didn’t find any Winchesters in Revelan, actually. Lying’s a sin, you know. _Especially_ lying to the King!”

“You're no King,” Sam retorted.

“We’ll see.” Crowley sneered and Castiel noticed one of the Guards slipping out a back door. More would be coming. He tightened his grip on his sword. “Sic ‘em, boys!”

The battle began. Sam and Dean charged at Crowley, but four soldiers blocked their way. Castiel whirled to protect their backs as another two guards came at them, whipping out a second dagger to fight with. Around them, only eight other soldiers were left to fight the fifteen misfits with the Winchesters, but it wasn’t long until another dozen or so burst through the doors and joined the fray.

Castiel ducked to his knees and stabbed one of the soldiers in the calf, simultaneously bringing up his sword to block the other’s. He kicked upwards but missed his mark, only succeeding in making the man stumble back a couple steps. He rose back to his feet and began slicing and parrying once more.

Across the room, Sam had been separated from his brother and was now battling with Crowley’s advisors, who apparently carried swords. And knew how to use them. Castiel still had his back to Dean, who was trying to make his way to Crowley. They hadn’t gained any ground, and Castiel couldn’t even be sure if Crowley was in the room anymore.

Castiel swung his dagger around and conked the soldier hard enough in the temple that he fell to the floor. No other soldiers came at him, as they were all occupied. Castiel heaved a breath but kept his back to Dean, just to be safe.

He took the time to look around the room. Chuck was lying prone on the floor, blood seeping out of his chest. Anna stood to the left of him, cut and bruised. They were all a little cut and bruised. Meg had blood gushing out of her thigh but fought on, cold determination on her face. Castiel looked down at himself and realized that he, too, was littered with nicks and cuts.

He turned around and found that Dean only had one adversary left between him and the King. Castiel noted the Captain’s pin resting on the man’s shoulder, though he didn’t recognize him.

“Cas,” Dean called to him, not pausing in his swordplay for a second, “go— Sam!”

Castiel whipped around to look at Sam. Somehow he’d gained three more opponents since Castiel had last checked on him. Castiel immediately rushed to help, coming up behind a severe-looking blonde woman and yanking her away by her hair before slamming her in the face so hard he heard the crunch of her nose breaking under his fist. It felt dirty and crude, but he moved to Sam, who was visibly weak, though his injuries weren’t obvious to Castiel just then.

He kicked out at another soldier, but she caught his foot midair and swung him around, sending him flying towards the stained glass. The guard advanced towards him, slashing through the air with her sword and even the adrenaline pumping through Castiel’s body couldn’t hide the pain as the tip of her blade slashed through his lower eyelid. He couldn’t hear himself scream, but Dean must have. He whipped his head around for a second, only a second before the new Captain knocked him back and held a sword to his throat.

Castiel looked around the room once more. Anna was now laying next to Chuck, breathing heavily. Meg was on one knee, her head being slammed into the knee of the soldier she’d been fighting. Sam was on the ground on his stomach, arms pinned behind him. Eileen was held in a chokehold by an unfairly beefy man. Jo and Charlie were both either knocked out or dead, and the rest of them had been disarmed and were now held hostage in a big circle in the middle of the room.

Castiel closed his eyes. They’d lost.

Dean turned his head his direction once more. “Cas,” he whispered, not loud enough for anyone to hear, but Castiel read his lips. “The window.”

Castiel wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but as he assumed respecting property was not high on their list of priorities. He slammed his elbow back, hitting the pane behind him with all his strength. It fractured, and he hit it again, which stopped the soldier from swinging at him. She frowned at him and just watched as he hit the window a third time. This time, it shattered.

Blue light flared through the room, nearly blinding Castiel. He fell back, expecting to be stabbed by remaining shards of glass but there were none. He’d smashed the entire pane.

The whole room froze as Angelic power, _Celestial_ power, flared up and out the window, in search of something, in search of the blood and soul it belonged to. Castiel’s own grace did not return to him, but he half hung out the window and watched the blue cloud travel towards the city and break apart.

“No!” Crowley bellowed, coming down the steps and walking towards Castiel and the woman standing before him. “Kill him, you fool!”

But the woman could not look away from the streams of light billowing down back to where they’d come.

Castiel smiled. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he stood.

Crowley stepped right by Dean’s head, who grabbed his foot and sent him tumbling down. The Captain pressed his sword in a little deeper and Castiel saw blood.

He needed his power. He braced his hands against the next pane and kicked as hard as he could, the glass shattering on the first try this time. Again a brilliant cloud of pure power flowed out into the city and even beyond. It was going home. Castiel smiled again and drew a knife from his chest, just as Crowley reached him. He plunged the blade into the pane above his head and it fractured around the blade but did not break.

Castiel didn’t get a chance to try again because then there were hands around his throat and he was shoved against a wall, Crowley’s face barely in view. He was nearly purple with rage. It might have been funny, under different circumstances.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” the false King muttered. “I could rend your body limb from limb without even trying, did you know that?”

“Then why don’t you?” Castiel choked out, doing his best to glare even as he cried blood.

Crowley scoffed. “Because Daddy’s left the building. That’s why I need him back here, otherwise I wouldn’t bother. Think I want to end the world? Don’t be stupid, I _live here._ I’ll kill him before he gets the chance to wreak any havoc and take his power for myself. It’s a win-win.”

Everything was getting spotty. Castiel’s eyes slid to Dean, one last time. He was still fighting, struggling, but hurt, badly. Castiel whimpered without meaning to.

There was no more glass to break behind him, nothing he could kick except—

Just before everything went dark completely, he let himself go limp, Crowley supporting him completely. He swung his leg upwards, right between the son of Lucifer’s legs.

Crowley dropped him and doubled over and Castiel slammed his elbow into his spine, causing him to fall to the floor. The guard moved to help him up, and Castiel quickly turned, drawing the dagger out and then slamming it back into the window, freeing yet another burst of blue.

But not all of this burst headed for the city. A clump of it broke off immediately, and it was like Castiel saw everything faster and slower at once as it came directly to him, pouring itself right down his throat.

Suddenly, Castiel was whole again, in body and soul. The use of his healing power was automatic, like walking or running, a simple extension of his existence.

Castiel smiled and whirled, burying the dagger in the soldier’s shoulder, as she’d been about to quite literally stab him in the back. He didn’t even bother with Crowley, making his way directly to Dean. The Captain narrowed his eyes at Castiel and raised his sword, but Castiel was ready, taking the first blow to his forearm. It felt like fire racing through his veins, but he gritted his teeth and pulled his arm back, his flesh already knitting itself back together. The soldier was surprised just long enough for Castiel to kick the sword out of his hand and for Balthazar to appear out of nowhere and pin the guard’s now free hand behind his back.

Castiel turned back to Dean. He was in rough shape, but intact enough to accept Castiel’s hand up. Castiel kissed him shortly once he was on his feet, just long enough to pour his power forward and heal Dean’s wounds.

Dean spared a moment to meet his eyes, full of love and gratitude, before walking towards Crowley to end his life.

Castiel, on a mission now, marched towards the largest group of his friends, surrounded by soldiers, all of whom looked wary of him marching forward. Some saw Dean and tried to get around, but by the sudden bursts of shouts and screams from every guard in the room, it was too late. Castiel ignored them and continued towards his friends, making quick work of healing them. He was feeling a bit drained but still going strong. He touched his fingers to Meg’s temple and she startled awake. He wrapped his fingers around Charlie and Jo’s respective wrists. They groaned but were alive.

The guards were being rounded up and de-weaponized by those Castiel had already healed, most of them not really fighting it. They looked confused. Perhaps Castiel was right and Crowley’s magic had broken once he was dead.

Castiel was just barely able to bring Anna back from the edge of death for the second time. She opened her eyes slowly and huffed at him. “I guess I owe you one for this, too.”

“You’ve done plenty,” Castiel assured her, helping her up.

He nudged Chuck’s head with his boot and the writer groaned loudly. “Did we win?”

“Cas!”

Castiel looked up towards the back corner of the room where Charlie and Donna were leading away Sam’s handcuffed previous opponents. Dean was kneeling over his brother, and a dark red pool of blood that Castiel hadn’t noticed before seeped into his pants.

Castiel rushed to the Winchesters. He’d seen that Sam was weak, but he hadn’t seen an actual wound, assumed he was okay.

He dropped onto the ground next to Dean, throwing his power into Sam, healing his body. Castiel knew it worked because the slash under Castiel’s fingers disappeared, but Sam did not move.

Castiel put a hand on his shoulder and rolled him over. He didn’t move. Dean gripped Castiel’s bicep with everything he had. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

Castiel frowned and lifted Sam’s shirt. His stomach was painted red but there was no actual injury to speak of. His body was whole. Why wasn’t he waking?  
Dean somehow gripped Castiel harder. “Cas?” Castiel looked at Dean, his white face and panicked green eyes, not a trace of victory to be seen there. The room around them was silent or maybe it was roaring as Castiel moved his hand to Sam’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut.

Nothing.

“No,” Dean said, knowing without Castiel having to tell him. “No no no no no no no. No. Cas? Cas, he has to get up. You healed him, he’s all better now.”

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, taking his hand off Sam and resting it on Dean’s knee. Dean stared at him for a moment longer and then drew his hands away, shoving them through his hair. Castiel closed his eyes, refusing to cry.

Sam was dead.

 


	3. Through the Valley

_Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for you are with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me._

 

_-Psalm 23:4-- American King James Bible_

 

__

 

People talk about their world falling apart when someone they love dies. How things seem to shatter around them.

Nothing fell apart around Dean. Sam was still laying in front of him, dead, and Cas was still sitting next to him, hand on his knee and failing hard at not crying. Crowley’s dead body was still some distance behind him, and a large group of people, some friends and some handcuffed, still stood off to the side in shocked silence, all looking to him for direction.

Dean wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d planned on making a grand announcement of sorts, but now he just wanted to run away. Run back to a week ago, when Sam was alive and they were happy.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, voice hoarse, “Cas, what do I— what do we do now?”

“What?” Dean had never seen Cas cry before. The red made his irises look bluer than ever, and he looked away again.

“What do we _do?_ ”

Meg approached them, arms crossed. “You go to the Equinox celebration. And you address everyone out there as their King.”

“What about Sam?” he asked, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t handle this, couldn’t believe it. It felt wrong to be existing without Sam, like the world had shifted out of balance. Not shattered, but shifted and _wrong_.

“We’ll take care of him,” Jo sobbed, pushing her hair back away from her face. “You have to go. It’s almost sundown.”

Dean closed his eyes, blocked out the scene before him. A tear fell down his cheek. His hands dropped from his head, hanging limply at his sides. Cas reached for him slowly, sliding his hand into Dean’s.

Dean took a breath and opened his eyes. “Smash those windows,” he ordered as he rose to his feet, dragging Cas up with him. Orders, orders, orders. He could give orders. “Anna and Kevin, go meet Dyaldee and head back to the village, bring everything in. Everyone else, stay here and deal with these people. Cas, let’s go.”

Dean turned and stormed through the throne room, trying to avoid the blood on the ground as Cas stumbled along behind him. He shoved the door open and stalked back out the main entrance.

The sun was just barely dipping below the mountains as Dean and Cas charged through the crowd and onto the white marble platform. Just like the guards inside, everyone gathered around the dais seemed to be mildly confused. Some were babbling about the King and Queen— Dean’s grandparents. They all shut up when they saw him standing above them, expecting him to have answers, as anyone standing in a position of authority must.

Dean took a breath and tightened his hand around Cas’. He wasn’t sure how much of a mess they looked, but it couldn’t have been good. Healed or no, they were covered in blood. “Crowley is dead,” he stated bluntly. Best to deal with the important things first. “I just killed him.”

The crowd went wild. Half of them, the older people who were remembering something about a plague and a King and a Queen and a Princess, clapped and cheered, while the younger people— specifically Guard members— shoved and pushed their way forward in outrage, towards Dean and Cas.

Dean let go of Cas and held his hands up. “Hey, hey, hey, listen! You all know who I am. You all trusted me, once. All I’m asking is that you trust me again, just for a minute.”

Everyone froze, even the soldiers. They eyed Dean suspiciously, but seemed to remember that he had once been their leader. A good leader, Dean reminded himself. Excellent, even.

He reached for Cas again, his fingers itching without that grounding contact. “Crowley was poisoning and fooling you all. The vaccine for the plague contained dark magic that wiped your memories and alloyed—”

“Allayed,” Cas corrected.

“ _Allayed_ any suspicions you might have had towards him.”

“Memories of what?” one of the soldiers barked out. Jesse, Dean thought his name was.

“The _real_ royal family. The Campbells.” Much of the crowd nodded in agreement, reassuring Dean. The magic had broken, then. Thank Michael. “Samuel, Deanna, and their daughter, Mary. My mother.”

They began chattering again. A cloud of blue smoke traveled over the crowd, and everyone screamed and pointed up at the mysterious power.

“That,” Cas shouted, “is the power Crowley stole from the Celestials. It’s making its way home.”

The crowd muttered amongst themselves for a moment before looking back to Dean. He squeezed Cas’ hand.

“I know this is all really confusing. But the truth is that I was meant to be your King. My mother is dead. She fled to Lawrence, and when Crowley found her, he burned the city down.”

“Where’s the proof?” someone shouted.

Dean drew a dagger from his boot. He hoped Mozrath was right about this. “Let me show you.”

The sun was setting and Dean sliced his palm open over the dais, letting his blood spill onto the white marble, his holy blood.

The sky cracked open.

Dean stepped back, drawing Cas towards him. Mozrath had _not_ lied, then, and suddenly Dean was terrified. He took a step down, shielding Cas’ body with his own as one lingering lightning bolt held steady on the point where Dean’s blood had hit the platform.

The lightning cleared and everything was dark but for the stars and moon. Just like it was supposed to be. This night was not a normal night, and spilling blood was more than a sacrifice when your blood is royal— it was a calling. If Sam were here, he would have done the same thing and the lightning would have come again.

If Sam were here.

Dean stepped back onto the dais, shoving the thought away. Around them, the people stomped and cheered, and Dean would have cheered with them under different circumstances.

Their acceptance didn’t feel like victory. It felt like a lifetime with no Sam, getting all the credit for something he should have shared with his brother.

Another blue cloud passed over and Dean shoved his feelings down again to roar, “Spread the word!”

Half the people scattered while the other half rushed forward to complete the ritual, many of them laughing and beaming up at Dean. Crowley had never been a very good King, but in the past few months he’d become outright tyrannical. Dean had seen the destruction on the streets when he’d come for reconnaissance. Buildings ransacked, soldiers terrorizing unchecked, anyone working for Crowley working too damn hard for too damn little.

Dean let Cas slide the dagger out of his palm. Dean hadn’t even realized he was still holding it. Cas let his own blood spill to the dais, then passed the blade on to the next person and tugged Dean aside.

“What now?”

Dean closed his eyes, another wave of exhaustion hitting him, but he predicted there would be no rest that night, nor the next day. There was cleaning to do, Jess would be back soon, glass windows left to smash, not to mention the questions. Surely everyone in the capital would have questions, and the other cities would want answers as well.

No, they would not be sleeping that night.

He sighed and relayed his thoughts to Cas, who agreed and led Dean inside. Dean was grateful. He wasn’t sure he was fit for leading at the moment, even though that was exactly what was needed.

They walked back into the castle, which was now bustling with servants. They seemed to be cleaning, which surprised Dean. He’d really expected more resistance with all of this, but it seemed Cas had been right and the people liked him more than they did Crowley. Magic lightning bolts sent from the Angels probably didn’t hurt either.

A servant gasped when he saw them and bowed, getting down on one knee. They stopped, Cas squeezing his hand twice. “Your Majesty,” he stammered, “and— Castiel. I remember you. We’re working to get the palace cleaned, sirs. The glass will need replacing, of course, but I suppose that’s not your greatest concern at the mo—”

“Matthew, you can stand,” Cas said softly. Dean was grateful. It was kind of hard to hear him with his head bent towards the ground.

Matthew stood, a blush on his face. “Sorry. Um, we’re still cleaning the throne room and such, and clearing out Crowley’s possessions. Well, we moved them, anyway. We were told you’d want to go through them.”

“By who?”

“Uh, the girl in there? She used to be your second, I think, sir.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, well, uh, thanks. You guys just keep— keep doing that. Hey, listen, is anyone guarding the door at all? I have a feeling people will just kinda be showing up soon.”

“Uh, I don’t think so, sir.”

“Okay, don’t worry about it, I’ll send someone out there. Thanks again, kid.”

“It’s my pleasure, sir,” he said with another short bow before scurrying off again.

Dean turned towards the throne room. He didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to face whether or not Sam was still in there, or the fact that he was now supposed to lead a whole country alone.

Well, not alone. There was Cas, of course, and Jess, but Sam being able to help him was part of the plan. Sam was arguably smarter than Dean about things like foreign relations and politics. Not to mention better at talking to people, which was going to have to be done.

Sam was the only person on the planet who knew him better than he knew himself and now he was gone and Dean didn’t know how he was going to cope without him. He couldn’t come to Cas with all of his troubles— what if he had Cas troubles, what then? He wanted Sam. He wanted to apologize for failing him, for leading him into battle and then abandoning him there. It was his fault that Sam was dead, unquestionably. They should have taken more time to train, recruited more people, done more to lessen the amount of guards they would be fighting.

“Dean.” Cas interrupted softly. Dean closed his eyes and sighed. Cas was tired, too. They were all tired. He doubted anyone had gotten much sleep last night. Dean hadn’t, that was for sure. He’d spent the entire night awake, holding Cas and staring at the wall. Cas had tried to fall asleep, and had nightmares when he did. Dean could hear him muttering about _blood_ and _Mom_ and _couldn’t._ It was precisely because of hearing Cas’ nightmares that Dean didn’t want to see his own. He didn’t want to see flames or his baby brother, turning blue in his arms, a young girl with self inflicted gouges on her arm and Cas, so thin and broken behind iron bars.

Dean knew that when he did eventually get to sleep, he would have a flurry of new images to add to his repertoire of nightmares from the past hour alone.

“Yeah,” he finally responded, opening his eyes to the harsh reality of the giant oak doors before him. “Yeah, let’s go.”

 

 

Dean wasn’t wrong. They were up all night, addressing confused yet grateful citizens. There were questions about how long Dean had known the truth, details of what they’d been doing all these long winter months, what Dean now planned to do with the country and, of course, endless questions about Cas. Who he was, what _they_ were, how they were supposed to treat him. Dean didn’t mind a few of them, but many he didn’t answer and instead had Benny escort the asker out.

There were a few questions about his brother. Dean didn’t respond to those, just closed his eyes, took a breath and said, “Anything else?”

He hadn’t yet sat on the throne; apparently there were rules about it or something. Besides, he was a complete disaster, covered in blood and dirt and he didn’t want to mess it up. Instead, he and Cas were sitting at the top of the stairs, elbows on their knees and looking decidedly unregal, but neither cared.

Cas never left him the whole time. Dean was grateful, but the more protective side of him wished he’d go up to bed. Maybe he was scared to be in the King’s quarters without the man himself.

By the time the sun had risen, there was still a line out the front doors of the palace. Dean knew he could send them all away, but he wanted the people to like him. They’d been living under a man who hadn’t paid them or their ideas an iota of attention, and he wanted to show them he was different.

Cas was leaning against Dean as he talked to a small mousy woman about street repairs on the South side. Dean promised to have it checked out, and she nearly started sobbing in relief. Benny went to help her, but she simply waved him off and left. As she reached the door, a woman with a cloud of curly blonde hair burst in.

 _Jess_.

Dean’s heart sank.

She was smiling, stomach still full with child. The mousy woman stopped, looking between Jess and Dean in alarm.

“Dean,” she said, giving him a mocking salute. The woman looked appalled. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean couldn’t exactly dodge the question. Jess deserved to hear this from him.

He shoved himself up, Cas staying behind on the platform. Dean made his way to his sister-in-law and stopped close enough that he could take her hands and squeeze them tightly.

“Jess,” he rasped, voice thick and hoarse, “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes widened and she looked from Dean to Cas to the woman by the door and back. The browned stain still visible on the ground. “No,” she said. “No, you're playing a joke. Dean, _where is he?”_

Dean’s eyes welled a bit as he enveloped Jess in a hug, carefully not squeezing her as hard as he normally would due to the baby. “Jess,” he choked out, meaning to say more but finding he couldn’t, couldn’t say the words _Sam’s dead,_ he couldn’t do it.

“No!” she screamed, pounding on his back with her fists as hard as she could. “Dean Winchester, don’t you hug me, don’t say sorry! _No!”_

Dean closed his eyes, tucking her blonde head under his chin as she sobbed. He felt the baby kick into his stomach and he hugged Jess tighter, hurting all over. He’d failed not only Sam but her, who’d loved Sam with all her heart, failed their baby who would grow up without a father.

Jess sucked in a ragged gasp, stiffening against Dean. He stepped away as she doubled over, hands over her stomach. Dean placed a cautious hand on her head, unsure if this was grief or physical pain. “Dean,” she sobbed, beating a fist weakly against his chest. “That _hurt._ I think— oh, Angels, I think I’m in labor.”

Dean’s heart jolted and straightened her up, hands firm on her shoulders. “Labor? Like, the baby’s coming?” Jess glared but took his hand between both of her own, squeezing so hard blood stopped flowing to it.

Cas stood and rushed down the steps, moving to stand next to her. “You're sure?”

“No, actually, maybe it was just a random fucking whatever. Yes I’m sure,” she hissed. Dean could forgive her for that. She was clearly in a lot of pain.

“Um, okay,” he said, trying not to freak out. “Uh, Andrea, can you just like, talk to everyone out there and tell them what’s going on?”

Andrea nodded and slipped out the doors, guiding the mousy woman out with her. Jess cried out and Dean swept her into his arms without thinking.

“Cas, can we get to the med bay or any rooms from here without having to go through that crowd?” he implored of his partner.

Cas thought for a second and nodded, heading for the back of the room. They crossed over the faded bloodstain that Dean was very much trying not to think about and headed out a door Dean remembered the Captain using to go fetch more soldiers. Cas led them outside and then back in to a wide hallway. Cas shoved open the door to the first room and held it open so Dean could rush Jess in and lay her on the bed.

“Uhh, okay, shit, Cas? Cas what do we do?”

Cas, the little shit, just raised an eyebrow and smirked as Jess had another contraction and cussed Dean out, calling him names he’d never heard before. Dean hurried to her side and let her crush his hand once more.

Cas shook his head once the contraction was over. “I assume you don’t want the whole palace in here?”

Dean huffed at him. “Would you just go get a medic, or something?”

“I actually find your panic highly amusing. And endearing.”

“I’m sure you do, asshole.”

Cas smiled and left, just as Jo barged in, looking giddy.

“Baby coming?”

Jess nodded glumly. Jo grinned and rushed to her side, opposite from Dean and closer to the door. She knelt and held out her hand for Jess to squash.

Jo looked up at Dean and her grin melted off her face. Dean understood. It should have been Sam kneeling here, Dean maybe pacing behind him or cheering Jess on. He shouldn’t be on his knees, holding Jess’ hand, her wedding ring digging into his palm. It should have been Sam. Dean wanted it to be Sam and he almost cried for his brother, missing the birth of his child, missing _everything;_ he didn’t deserve it, he was too young, and  Dean wanted him _back._

Jess’ next contraction seemed to be a little less painful, as she only gritted her teeth and groaned, and Dean didn’t fear that his hand would come off. Cas returned with a team of medics only a moment after it was over.

Jo stood to give them room, but Dean stayed where he was. Sam wasn’t here because of Dean— the least he could do was take care of his wife, his baby.

He felt very unequipped for all of this. But Cas stepped in beside him and put a hand on top of his head and Dean felt grounded.

The birth of his brother’s child was a very long, painful blur. Jess took to hitting him and screaming about things he couldn’t quite make out. Later, Dean was told the entire ordeal had lasted fifteen hours. He didn’t know what to make of that. It felt like too long and too short at the same time.

But, after fifteen hours, Jess gave birth to a baby boy. Dean cut his umbilical cord with his sword. Jess laughed weakly and Cas groaned, but they didn’t have any scissors on hand. It wasn’t exactly the most planned event, the birth of Dean’s heir.

After the doctors cleared out, leaving just Dean and Jess, Cas and the baby, Jo passed out in the corner, the new mother whispered, “What should we name him?”

There was a long pause before Cas suggested, “Sam?”

Dean looked down at the baby in his arms. Jess had held him against her chest for an hour before bursting into tears and shoving the bundle at Dean. He understood. When he looked down at his nephew, he saw Sam. He was only a baby, and babies didn’t really look like much, but this baby looked like his brother and it hurt.

“No,” Jess responded, “he’d hate that.”

Sam _would_ hate that. He’d always thought parents naming their kids after themselves was just them being self-centered and living vicariously through them. Kids aren’t their parents, and this boy was not Sam. No one could be Sam.

“You guys had to have talked about it at some point, right?” Dean asked.

Jess sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “If he was a boy, Sam wanted to name him Alex. Alexander.”

Dean looked down at the sleeping baby’s face. “Hmm. What do you think, buddy? Alex?”

The baby did not respond.

“He seems thrilled,” Cas drawled. His eyes were bloodshot. Dean couldn’t imagine that he looked much better himself.

Dean smirked at him. “Alex Winchester it is, then.”

Jess nodded her head, yawned, and was instantly asleep. Dean wished he were asleep, but now there was a baby. How was he supposed to sleep when he was holding a baby? Plus, he hadn’t finished with the people’s questions. Maybe he could take a quick power nap and then take his newborn nephew out to the throne room to meet the people. He was kind of a big deal, after all. The people might be interested to know that their future ruler had just been born.

Cas was now asleep too, slumped forward in his chair. Dean sighed and called the medic in. He knew she was hovering outside the door. These people weren’t sneaky in the least. He instructed her to wake him in an hour and to let the lines start forming outside the throne room once more. Then he laid Alex next to his mother and pitched forward, butt still in the chair but face resting on the soft mattress beneath him. He was asleep instantly.

 

 

Tired? Tired wasn’t a feeling anymore. It wasn’t even an adjective, or a word, or anything— it was a state of _being._ Castiel wasn’t even sure he was Castiel anymore, wasn’t sure he was anything but _tired._

He’d had a nap after Alex’s birth, but of course when the nurse came in to wake up Dean, he was pulled from his slumber as well. He’d have felt bad abandoning Dean to the baby and the citizens, so he went with them back to the throne room.

They were there throughout the rest of the day and past sundown, _long_ past sundown, and there was still more left to address. Their current audience was a small family of four: a mother and her three children. They wanted to see about a better school system.

“Is the baby yours?” the woman asked after Dean had assured her the issue would be looked into, if not by him than by his sister-in-law. Jessica was very passionate about education.

Dean yawned and shook his head. “Brother’s. His mom’s sleeping. Figured it would be best to let her rest after—” Dean yawned again, “—giving birth and all.”

The woman looked from the baby to Dean to Castiel’s barely opened eyes. “No offense, Your Highness, but you and your…”

Castiel waved a hand. “Partner, lover, whatever. Suitor.”

Dean snorted. “Really? Suitor?”

“It’s not entirely inaccurate.” Dean was too tired to smile at him, but Castiel could see the warmth in his eyes and felt it echoed within himself.

The mother gave them a small, soft smile. “Well, you both look exhausted. I can’t imagine how long you’ve been up for. Eureva will still be here in the morning.”

Castiel looked over at Dean. She had a point. The kingdom wasn’t going anywhere, but they would be if they didn’t get some serious rest, and soon. Dean met Castiel’s eyes and sighed, shifting Alex from his left shoulder to his right.

“Thank you,” he said to the women and her children. He nodded at them and they nodded back, the children not quite seeming to understand why. They turned and left, but Balthazar closed the door behind them and didn’t let anyone else in.

Even with the old Guard back in rotation, Dean preferred keeping their group from the village closer to him. Castiel agreed with the decision. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face the woman who’d nearly killed him, or see the faces of the men he knew had had a hand in Sam’s death.

Of course, those men were now imprisoned. Castiel didn’t quite know how he felt about that, but once people had learned what happened to their Prince, they’d called for justice. Nevermind the fact that they had just been doing what they thought was right.

When Castiel had brought this up to Dean, the newly minted but already weary King had just closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Citizens want ‘em to be put away, so I’m putting them away. And they killed Sam. Four of them and one of him. They killed him, and I’ll kill them if I damn well please.”

Castiel still didn’t know how he felt about that. It did make him feel a bit better to know that the men were Crowley’s advisors, men who’d encouraged him in his tyranny and neglect, but in the end they were soldiers doing a job.

Castiel supposed Dean was never going to be a soft King. It wasn’t in his nature, especially not when it came to those who hurt his brother. Monsters would receive their just desserts and citizens would receive a better world.

Dean left Alex with his sleeping mother and a nurse on standby before dragging Castiel up to their new quarters, the King’s chambers.

The place had been stripped bare, Crowley’s possessions all having been sent to another spare room to be looked through later. Castiel was glad for the empty room. It made the space seem new, _theirs_ , untainted by reminders of Crowley.

The only thing left was a huge bed— larger, even, than the bed they’d shared in the dragon village. It looked like the softest and warmest thing in the world.

Dean sighed heavily and shucked off his boots, pants, tunic, and undershirt. Castiel groaned. “Do I have to? I’m tired, I’ll sleep with my clothes on.”

Dean shook his head and kicked Cas lightly in the shin. “No. You're all gross. Your muddy boots aren’t allowed in this bed, sir.”

Castiel rolled his eyes but obeyed and snuggled in next to Dean, both fast asleep within seconds.

 

 

Dean was not so tired that nightmares evaded him that night.

He found himself in a forest, the trees turning to ash around him, and suddenly he was sinking, sinking right through the ground and through the ash until he was swallowed and the sun was gone and he couldn’t _breathe_ —

Cas stood in front of him in the blackness, close enough to feel his breath on his lips, but unnaturally still. Dean looked closer at his eyes and found that instead of a deep, rich blue they were a dull, foggy grey. Dean looked down and saw long, deep gouges in his arms and torn fingernails.

The dream shifted to a bright and sunny day in Revelan, Sammy running on the beach, just a kid, and he was laughing. Dean was laughing, chasing after him.

But then Sam slipped and fell into the water. Blood pooled out under him, staining the tide red as it washed over him. His body didn’t move, but his spirit, an adult once more, rose out of his body and floated away, dead gaze not leaving his living brother.

 

 

Cas knocked lightly on the door frame to Dean’s old office. It was technically Meg’s now, but she didn’t use it often— though she had managed to get through all of Dean’s piles of paperwork in only a week. Or maybe it had been Tristan, Crowley’s replacement for Dean. He didn’t care either way, he was just glad it was gone in order for him to have space to sort through Crowley’s things.

He had an office upstairs, but there were too many people there. He liked being alone nowadays.

Crowley’s stuff wasn’t all that interesting— just a bunch of journals featuring events Dean already knew about. The only new information was, apparently, he’d been planning on using the Celestials’ powers to kill his father. So there was that.

“Yeah,” Dean responded to Cas, the word falling flat. His fingers fumbled for the flask he’d set on the floor, raising the cool metal to his lips as he continued reading. He didn’t have to look up to see Cas’ angry frown.

“Sam’s body has been preserved,” Cas reported softly. “Jess suggested we bury him in the garden anyway.”

“Do whatever,” Dean said, taking another swig.

Cas sighed. “Dean,” he started.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Cas stood watching him for another beat or two before walking away. Dean closed his eyes and shut the journal. He wished Cas had stayed, fought at his walls, pushed for him to talk to him.

But Cas walked away.

Or maybe Dean had walked away? He hadn’t stopped for a second to consider that Cas might be feeling his own grief, his own guilt.

Dean put the journal aside and turned to the next item in the box, an iron goblet. Dean knew immediately that it was the cup Crowley had used to talk to Lucifer. He picked it up, running his fingers over the horrific illustrations before dropping it.

Who cared.

 

 

It was two months until the country was stable enough that Dean and Cas were allowed normal sleep schedules. The stress had not dissipated; there were several projects underway in the city alone that had to be overseen, but it was nothing compared to the shambled mess of a country they’d first inherited. Things were getting better.

Cas found time to help out in the med bay. Though the Celestials were back to full power, healers were rare. Those who had come to the palace for work had been scattered around the city and Cas was the only one left in the palace.

Dean managed to continue working with the Guard. It had grown since he’d started encouraging people to join, but not as much as he would have liked. Meg was Captain, but only in Lavendel. One of the first things Dean had done as King was appoint a single Captain of the Guard to each city and village in Eureva. Of course, they still had to report back, but there wasn’t the same kind of pressure on Meg that had been on Dean.

Jess and Alex weren’t getting on as well without Sam. If Dean was being honest, he wasn’t either, but working helped. Jess couldn’t distract herself with much beyond caring for Alex, who only reminded her of Sam.

Everything reminded Dean of Sam. He missed him. There were times where Dean would spend hours on an issue Sam could’ve resolved in minutes. He needed him. He felt like he was drowning, even though he still had Cas, Jess, the baby, his friends, and a whole country.

The country was supposed to be Sam’s damn responsibility, too. So was his _son,_ who now only had Dean as a father. Who did he think he was, dying on them like that?

Dean knew he’d changed since Sam’s death and changed for the worse. He got angry at the smallest things, and had a deathly quiet about him that put servants on edge and drove Cas to the other side of the bed at night.

He’d also started drinking. He’d never been a heavy drinker— couldn’t afford to be— but now he kept a flask in his pocket at all times.

He needed Sam. Sam was his balance, shaming Dean into good decisions and maybe the only person on the planet who understood why he was the way that he was. The only person who knew every nitty gritty detail of Dean’s life and loved him anyway.

Dean missed Sam. None of them deserved to go on without him.

Once upon a time, Dean’s only hope had been saving his brother, even if it meant doom for the rest of the world. It seemed the tables had turned and Dean had saved everyone _but_ Sam.

It wasn’t right. Sam hadn’t deserved to die.

What he had to do didn’t occur to him until several months into his reign, when the country was stable, and well, thriving. Trade was booming, the city was sparkling, and the future had never looked brighter for Eureva.

For everyone but Dean (and probably Cas, having to deal with him all the time). He couldn’t sleep. Nightmares continued to hound him, but they were easier to temper when Cas was in arm’s reach. That night, Dean had come to bed with whiskey on his breath and Cas seemed a million miles away.

He knew it was his fault, the gap between them. It had always been his fault, even when Dean had just been a Captain and Cas just a thief.

And how was Dean supposed to fix it if he couldn’t talk to Sam about it? It was like losing a limb, like Cas had said about his powers, but Sam was a person who’d lived and breathed and deserved to live so much fucking more than Dean did. Now Dean was alive but he didn’t want to be anymore and Cas was here and alive but probably wishing it’d been Dean instead of Sam, the whole _country_ was probably wishing it was Dean instead of Sam and he couldn’t _breathe_ —

Dean was up and stumbling towards the balcony before he’d even realized. He crashed through the fragile oak and glass doors and out into the cool night air, bracing his hands on the railing and gulping down breaths faster than he could force them out.

 _Should’vebeenyoushould’vebeenyoushould’vebeen_ —

“Dean?”

Cas.

Dean closed his eyes and flared his nostrils, trying to return some semblance of control to his body, his breathing. His shoulders were shaking and his cheeks were wet. He didn’t turn around.

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

Cas was right behind him now, a hand placed firmly between his shoulder blades. Dean tightened his jaw.

“Sorry,” he said, straightening and opening his eyes. He turned to face Cas, who looked sleepy but concerned, brows knitted and lips formed into a frown. “I’m fine.”

Cas caught his wrist. “Dean,” he whispered, an unspoken plea.

Dean sighed and met his eyes. In the moonlight, they looked almost silver. _I love you,_ Dean thought. But he didn’t deserve him.

“Sorry,” he repeated instead and pushed past him, tears pricking his eyes once more.

 _“Dean,”_ Cas insisted, blocking his path to the door. He placed his hands on Dean’s biceps and squeezed once, gently. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t explain it. Everyone else seemed to be moving on, moving past their grief, but Dean felt like he was moving back and it hurt more and more every day. Sam was in a better place now— he’d been a good man, his soul unquestionably belonged in the Jubilant State of the Dead Lands.

So why couldn’t Dean shake the feeling that he should be doing more to save him?

“I don’t know,” he lied.

Cas studied his face. “Yes, you do.”

Dean slumped. “It’s nothing, Cas. Don’t worry about it.”

“I _am_ worried about it. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“You don’t have to help me.”

“Yes, I do!”

“Why?” Dean asked, meaning to be venomous but instead coming off lost. “What have I ever done for you?”

Cas’ eyes went soft, turning down at the corners as he stepped in and kissed Dean lightly. “You make me happy,” he rumbled. “I don’t know that anyone in the world could ask for much more.”

“I don’t,” Dean disagreed. “I don’t make you happy. Not anymore.”

Cas sighed. “None of your recent actions are unforgivable. Or unfixable.”

Dean squeezed his eyes closed, wrapping a hand around the back of Cas’ neck and pulling him in. Their lips didn’t meet, but their foreheads were pressed together, Cas’ arms around his shoulders. Somehow, Dean remembered how to breathe.

“Love you,” he mumbled.

“Love you, too,” Cas whispered. “You're going to be okay, Dean. I promise.”

 _Sam’s not,_ he thought to himself, but he knew that Sam _was_ okay, maybe even happy in the afterlife. Maybe he missed them all, but he surely wasn’t suffering as much as they were.

Cas kissed him again and led him back to bed. This time, Dean fell asleep with and arm over Cas’ chest, a leg slung over his body, and his face tucked into the crook of his neck.

 

 

Red swam in Dean’s vision— stark, cracked, ruby ice. The color of blood, frozen into a rock solid ground. Dean stood atop it, blinking and disoriented.

Where was he?

He looked up, eager to plant his gaze anywhere other than on the ice beneath his feet, trying to convince himself it was _not_ blood. The air above was made entirely of roiling, colored gases. Every color in the rainbow was represented up there, but all were dull, muted, dark. Looking into the horizon revealed small masses occasionally interrupting the ice. On autopilot, Dean moved towards the closest.

He wished he hadn’t.

The base of the mass was made entirely of human flesh. He only knew it was human by the skin still attached to bone in some places, the color unmistakable.

Growing out of the meat was a large bush, thorny and taller than Dean. There were people inside the bush— he could hear them screaming, see flailing limbs impaled on thorns.

He closed his eyes and stepped back, boots slipping a bit on the ice. He knew where he was.

He was in bed, asleep next to Cas. This was a nightmare about the State of Suffering in the Dead Lands.

“Well, not quite,” a voice said behind him.

Dean whipped around, slipping once more. Before him was a short man with a smug smirk and curling golden hair. He was wearing ancient battle armor, crafted to fit around wings. Great golden wings, stretching up high above both their heads and practically glowing against the dark background.

An Angel.

“Um,” he said eloquently, “not quite what?”

The Angel rolled his eyes. “You're not quite having a nightmare. More like a… vision.”

Dean weighed this statement. On one hand, why would Angels be sending him visions? On the other hand, he was the King. If they were going to send anyone visions…

“Sure,” he decided. If it was a dream, it was a dream, and if not, something important was probably happening. “Who are you?”

“Gabriel,” the Angel responded proudly. “And this is the Dead Lands, as you already guessed. The State of Suffering. But it’s not what I came to show you.”

Dean frowned and opened to his mouth, but Gabriel whisked him away with a snap of his fingers. He was suddenly standing in… nothing.

His feet _felt_ like they were on solid ground, but there was nothing underneath them.

The sky was nothing, the ground was nothing.

This was infinitely worse than the blood and the smoke. Dean could already feel it, the panic setting in. This was the kind of place that would rip your mind to shreds, sooner rather than later.

Gabriel was standing next to Dean. He tried to anchor himself on those wings, but ultimately he found himself shaking, terrified.

“Freaky, isn’t it? Look ahead.”

Dean tore his eyes from the golden wings and forced his gaze forward.

The sight before him was somehow in the distance and right in his face simultaneously, but it didn’t matter how close or far it was because Dean drank in every detail anyway.

The throne was made of metal chains, wrapped tightly together around something that seemed to be oozing a black liquid. Dean didn’t want to know. Behind this giant throne sat six smaller ones, three on each side. They seemed to have been made in a similar fashion, though the liquid leaking between the chains was red instead of black. All seats were occupied. The occupants were unfamiliar to Dean except the man in the sixth small chair.

Crowley. Lucifer’s sixth son.

It wasn’t hard to put together that the men in the other five chairs were his brothers and the winged monstrosity in the black throne, his father.

Dean got the sense that he shouldn’t be here. He was vaguely comforted by Gabriel’s presence next to him, but not much.

Lucifer’s wings were white, surprisingly, though the pure color was marred by thick rivers of blood down the feathers. There were no visible wound, and the liquid didn’t seem to flow; it just rested there, in place. Dramatic effect, probably. Other than that, he looked like a man; a man with a trail of red scabs down the side of his face and a cruel set of black eyes, but his shape was human and no bigger than Dean. He was dressed similarly to Gabriel.

Dean drank in all these details, but what drew his attention was a figure, larger than Lucifer but smaller than the throne, who rested his head against the chains that made up the legs.

“Sam,” he whispered, recognizing his brother. His brother. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be kneeling by the Devil with a bloody face and a blank, tortured stare. “I don’t— _Sam_!” he called.

Gabriel chuckled. “You're not really here, Dean-o. No one can hear you except me.”

Dean whirled around to face the Angel. “How did he get here? Why?”

“He was a key player in Crowley’s downfall. I doubt anyone here is too happy about any of that.”

Dean looked back to Sam, trying hard not to focus on how awful he looked. He wanted to run to him, but at the same time he didn’t want to be any closer than he was, didn’t want to see the extent of the tangible damage to his soul.

“Bring him back,” Dean demanded of Gabriel, who sighed sadly at him.

“I can’t. I’m less here than you are, bud. Ever hear the legend that when we trapped Luci here, he trapped us—” Gabriel pointed towards the not-sky “—up there? All I can really do is show _you_ what’s happening here.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking involuntarily towards the horror to his right. Still there. “Why are you just now showing me this? Sam’s been dead for _months._ And if you can show people things, why did all of you let Crowley go unchecked for decades?”

“Well, he’s been checked, hasn’t he?” Dean glared. Gabriel rolled his eyes. “The magic meant we couldn’t get into anyone’s heads. But we— I— was helping you the whole time. Rest of the Angels don’t care a ton anymore, they’re tired. But did you know that I built Lawrence? It was small at first, but it grew. And when it went up… well, let’s just say I hate that bastard. And maybe I gave a few people a little nudge out of the fire. Not enough to draw any attention, but enough to get you some building blocks. You and Sam, Eileen and her mom.”

“You just let everyone else die?”

Gabriel huffed. “Again, I’m limited. I could barely get the four of you out. I could barely keep you and Sam alive that winter. You’ve had a lot of close calls, Dean Winchester, but not a single one of them should have been ‘close’. That scar, on your stomach? Should have killed you. Or at least knocked you out a lot quicker than it did. But you needed to hear what Cole had to say, so I helped you hang on a little longer. Don’t even get me started on the dragon.”

Dean gritted his teeth, chest burning. It was probably a bad idea to go around yelling at Angels, but Dean had been the King of bad ideas before he became King of anything else. “And you could do all that but you couldn’t protect Sam?”

“In my defense, it was a bit of a hectic day. Do you think it was luck that Castiel found his powers when he did? You all would’ve died if I hadn’t helped him. And as for your other question, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume that you're going to be charging off to the coast as soon as you wake up. The country still needs you, but they needed you there more in the beginning. I’m thinking about the big picture, here. You should be, too.”

Dean closed his eyes. Gabriel was right. He had to think of the country first. Sam would never forgive him if he let Eureva fall to ruin for his sake. But Eureva was stable now, and there was no reason Jess and Cas couldn’t handle things while he went to save Sammy. “I have to go. I have to get him.”

Gabriel nodded, and without another word, the Dead Lands dissolved around them. Dean woke to sunlight filtering in the room and Cas’ chest moving up and down under his cheek.

Dean planted his palms in the mattress and shoved himself upward. The movement jostled Cas enough to wake him, and he was barely opened his eyes before Dean had hurtled out of bed and towards the wardrobe.

“Dean?” Cas called, also getting up. “Why—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted, shirt in hand, “I had— I had a dream last night. Or a vision. Whatever, doesn’t matter, but I gotta go.” He turned back to the wardrobe, but Cas grabbed his shoulder and turned him back around.

“Dean. Slow down. Explain.”

Dean took a breath and relayed the contents of his dream to Cas, whose eyes widened with every word.

“So, yeah, that happened, and now I have to go save Sam.”

“You're going to bring him back?”

“You preserved his body, right?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Then, yeah.”

“Dean.” Cas looked into his eyes pleadingly. Dean was distracted by the vibrancy of the blue in that moment— like blueberries, maybe, or the ocean. “You can’t just _leave._ The country is depending on you, not to mention—”

“Cas, my _brother_ — _”_

“Not to mention,” Cas repeated over him, “that crossing the Boiling Ocean is extremely dangerous, to say nothing of the Dead Lands themselves. What if you don’t come back?”

“It’s been done before,” Dean reminded.

Cas rolled his eyes. “One man in a thousand was successful in returning someone from the dead.”

“Cas, I can do it. You know I can.”  
“Besides that, who is going to rule in the meantime?”

“You,” Dean answered simply, “and Jess.”

Cas narrowed those supernaturally blue eyes at him. “Me? If you think I would even dream of letting you do this on your own you need your head checked.”

Dean blinked at him, and suddenly he understood his partner’s point about danger a whole lot better. He pushed past him and sat on the edge of the bed, where he slid his shirt on over his head. “Uh, no. No, you're not going.”

“Fine, then you're not going.”

“Cas, Sam is being _tortured by the Devil._ I have to save him.”

“Then I will go with you.”

“You need to stay here.”

“Jess can stay here.”

“Jess needs help!”

“It may have escaped your notice, but we have plenty of advisors. And friends.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Fine, I won’t go alone, but you're not coming. I’ll bring Benny or Charlie. You're staying here, it’s not safe.”

“It’s safer for me than it is for you,” Cas argued. “I have magic, and it would be very hard for anything to kill me.”

“Well, apparently I have Angels watching over me,” Dean snarked.

“I thought Gabriel said he had a hard time just keeping you awake after you got hurt in a fight with Cole? I saved you, Chuck, Anna, Charlie, Jo and myself from the brink of death without breaking a sweat. It’d be stupid not to take me with you, partner or no partner.”

“Well then, Cas, maybe I’m stupid.”

Cas stared at him. “You're going to risk the success of your mission to save your brother because you don’t think I can handle the Dead Lands?”

“No. I’m refusing to risk _your_ life. Big difference.”

If Cas died out there, not only would Dean not be able to get him back, but it would be another death on his hands and he’d essentially be trading Cas for Sam.

“Everyone is at far less of a risk if I’m there, Dean, and you know it.” Cas was fuming now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Dean didn’t dare meet his eyes, eyes he knew had to be a steely, unflinching blue that would just crack him in two. He was resolute in keeping Cas home.

He had a point, though, one Dean ignored. He would be valuable on any sort of life-threatening mission.

“Cas, I can’t ask you to risk your life for my problems again.”

Cas, fully aware of Dean’s tactic of avoiding looking into his eyes, stepped right into his line of sight. “It’s not just _your_ problem. The siege of the castle was for the good of the entire country, and in case you forget, it was my battle first. Sam was my friend and one of the best men I know. If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll go myself.”

Dean looked up. Cas’ teeth were gritted, eyes widened in challenge. He believed him. The stubborn bastard really would just march right into the Dead Lands after him no matter what Dean did. He sighed, letting his lungs fill to capacity before _whoosh_ ing the air out.

“Fine,” he finally conceded. “Fine, but we’re leaving as soon as possible. Today.”

Cas nodded, shoulders slumping and eyes returning to their usual diameter. “Get dressed, then go find Jessica. I’ll figure out what we’ll need.”

Dean stood and cupped his jaw, pulling him in for a soft, rushed kiss. “Baby, you need to get dressed, too.”

Cas frowned. “I am not an infant.”

“Sweetheart. Honey. Baby. Dear. Take your pick.”

Cas shook his head, a small smirk on his face. “Put your pants on.”

Dean nodded and his brain switched into autopilot, full of righteous purpose and the need to save his baby brother. He dressed quickly, forgetting that he was the King for a minute and leaving his hair as it was, not even bothering to throw on a tunic over his shirt. The guards at the door, whom he knew but couldn’t place, looked confused, but ultimately just shook their heads as he jogged down towards his sister-in-law’s room. Everyone had learned Dean was unlike any King they’d ever had very early in his reign. Crowley would have never been seen in such casual clothes or looking so rumpled, but as Dean said, Crowley was a pencil-pushing prick and he was, well, just like everyone else.

The guard outside Jess’ room was Eileen. She’d joined up once everything had settled, and though many had challenged her, Meg knew how capable she was and promptly told them all to shut the fuck up. Dean hadn’t been present that day, but Jo nearly cried laughing when she described the terrified looks on everyone’s faces.

Eileen gave Dean a little wave. She was sitting on the floor reading, which Dean might have reprimanded her for, but she was laying with her legs in front of the door. No one was getting past her, and besides, Anna was asleep on her shins.

“Anna,” Dean said, giving the redhead a little nudge. She snapped upwards, blinking rapidly. She blushed when she saw Dean.

“I swear, I _just_ fell asleep.”

Dean huffed. It wasn’t that big a deal, he decided, but maybe it was time to talk to Meg about putting the two of them on City Guard. Clearly the sitting around doing nothing wasn’t cutting it for them.

“It’s fine,” he assured her, “but go to bed, both of you. Someone else will be up here soon.”

Anna peeled herself off the floor and stalked away, head bent. Dean seized Eileen by the arm before she could follow. She’d been with them from the start— she deserved some explanation.

“Eileen,” he said softly, pulling his hands towards himself to form the sign Cas used for her name— just an E and an L, but the girl beamed anyway. Dean was no expert by any stretch, but he knew the alphabet at the very least, mostly just from watching her and Cas. “Cas and I are leaving. We’re going to get Sam. I don’t know how long it will take, but you’ll take care of Jess, right? I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

Eileen’s eyes became wide as saucers. “Why do you need to get Sam? Dean, he’s at peace.”

Dean shook his head. “He’s not, trust me. Promise you’ll take care of Jess?”

Eileen nodded after a moment of studying him, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. “I’ll say goodbye to Castiel.”

Dean patted her on the shoulder and eased into Jess and Alex’s room. Alex was awake, laying on his back on Jess’ bed, the girl in question still fast asleep.

Dean lifted his nephew up, the baby gurgling happily at him. Funny, he was usually a real bitch in the mornings. Dean had a theory that Cas was a bad influence on him.

“Jess,” he called, body bouncing to please Alex on instinct. “Jess, wake up.”

Jess rolled over and blinked slowly at him, hair a blonde tangled mess. “Morning,” she muttered. She didn’t sit up, just laid on her back and stared at the ceiling.

Dean studied her and sighed. She made him sad; she reminded him of Sam, how much she loved him, how badly he’d failed her.

“Jess,” he started, “I’m bringing Sam back.”

Jess turned to face him, furrowing her eyebrows. “You— what?”

Dean perched on the edge of her bed, settling Alex on his hip. “I had a vision last night about Sam. He’s suffering, Jess. I can save him. I can bring him back.”

Jess sat up all the way, eyes welling with tears. “Dean… what if _you_ don’t come back?”

Dean forced a smile for her. “I’ll have Cas with me! I’ll come back. We’ll all come back.”

Jess bowed her head, hiding the way she wiped her tears with her hair. “You better,” she demanded, raising her head to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m going to do while you're gone.”

Dean sucked in a breath. “Well, Queen Jessica,” he said with a smirk. Jess’ eyes widened, but she did not look afraid. “I suppose you're going to rule.”

 

 

They were not leaving with any sort of hurrah— Jess would address the people once they were gone, but after loading up a carriage with various weapons, supplies for the journey to Revelan, and Sam’s body, they wanted to slip out unnoticed.

Revelan was two hundred miles from the capital, and the journey would take them two days even with the palace’s fastest horse. Charlie would be chauffeuring them all the way into Revelan, where she would stay with Bobby until they returned.

Castiel was nervous for a myriad of reasons. First, it was very likely they were going to die in the Dead Lands. Second, he was riding for two days in the back of a carriage with the dead body of his friend. Third, he would be meeting Dean’s adoptive father and he had no idea how the man would take to him.

It wasn’t though they needed his approval or anything, but Castiel desperately wanted to be liked. Family was important to Dean— if there was discord among those he loved, he would be upset.

Dean appeared in the open doors of the carriage, hoisting himself inside and flicking his hood down. He visibly winced at the cloth-covered coffin in place of a second carriage bench but said nothing. “We’re ready to go,” Dean informed him, banging on the partition to pass the message to Charlie. The carriage jolted into motion as Dean took his seat next to Castiel, cautiously lacing their fingers together. Castiel gave him a reassuring squeeze.

Nothing was said as the sounds of a bustling city faded behind them. They’d gone over everything with Jess before they’d left— the expected duration of their journey, what supplies they’d need, what to prepare for once they were in the Dead Lands. Luckily, Castiel had done a fair bit of research on the Lands before he’d met Dean, out of nothing but sheer boredom. He’d learned much about the monsters that lived there, how best to handle them, and the landscape itself.

There was nothing that needed to be said, yet Castiel found the silence awkward. Maybe the answer was as apparent as the sun in the sky, but he felt it was his duty to ask, “Are you okay?”

Dean’s heavy gaze met his as he dragged his head up to look at Castiel. He squeezed his hand. “Come on, Cas.”

“I know. I felt the need to ask.”

Dean leaned his head on his shoulder, his stubble scratching against the thick fabric of Castiel’s tunic. “I don’t know how I am, to be honest. I just want Sam back. I want Sam back, and I want to go home and have everything be okay, y’know? I want us all to be happy. I want to be able to give a shit about this country we worked so damn hard to save.”

Castiel sighed heavily and rested his head atop Dean’s. “I know. We’ll get there, Dean. We’re going to be okay.”

 

 

What parts of their journey they did not spend sleeping or eating was spent reading, combing through the few books they had brought with them detailing the Dead Lands. Though Dean and Castiel both were skilled warriors, they’d only ever battled humans, and, in the case of the former, dragons. The beasts that dwelled in the Boiling Ocean, as well as the State of Suffering where Sam was, well, suffering, were unlike any that could be found on the mortal plane. Arriving unprepared was not a chance they were willing to take, even with Castiel’s healing powers on their side.

“Look at this, Cas, they’re called wendigos. Spirits of cannibals that got weird and warped and ugly. Apparently, the only way to kill them is with fire. Wasn’t your dad a fire guy?”

“The term,” Castiel corrected, “is pyro. And yes, though I did not inherit any of his abilities, if that’s what you're asking.”

“Shame,” Dean sighed, turning the page in his volume. He shook his head at Castiel in mock disappointment. “Guess plain old torches will have to do.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticked up as he flipped the page in his book, scanning for a mention of the Dead Lands. Samuel Colt’s memoirs were chock full of useful information Castiel had skated over while reading for the first time.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I love you,” Dean mumbled, eyes trained on his book of monsters.

Castiel peeled his eyes from his own book, brows furrowed. “I know that. This seems like a very random time to announce that. Are you alright?”

Dean looked up, face so open and vulnerable that Castiel moved to sit with him on the floor of the carriage, though the sound of the rumbling wheels unnerved him. Dean sighed and closed his book, slightly angling his body away from the ever-present coffin. “I’m good. It’s just— I feel like I don’t say that enough. I don’t know.”

Castiel studied his face, once more cast towards the floor. They were nearing Revelan, would be there before the day was over, and tomorrow they would cross the border between the Brenna Sea and the Boiling Ocean and their journey would truly begin.

“Dean,” Castiel began, reaching out and squeezing his hand, “I understand your worry, but you and I will both make it out of the Dead Lands alive, Sam in tow.”

Dean sighed heavily and closed his eyes, shoulders slumping. The weight on them was almost visible. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Castiel leaned in and planted a tender kiss to his lips, smiling at the sour taste of blueberries on his tongue. Charlie had spotted a couple bushes on the road earlier and they’d all feasted, laughing as she tossed the berries into the air and tried to catch them in her mouth.

After a time, Castiel pulled away. “I love you, too, Dean.”

Dean grinned at him, then poked at his chest. “Read. We have a mission.”

Castiel sighed and pulled the memoirs toward him. He opened to a random page and immediately a passage jumped out at him.

_Even now, years since my wife has returned to me, I marvel how quickly I hunger. That terrible magic place had left me without need of food or drink or sleep while I stood upon its ground._

“Huh,” he said, blinking as he read the passage again. “It appears we’ve overpacked.”

Dean frowned and leaned in, looking where Castiel pointed. He wrinkled his nose. “Do we really trust that?”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“If we starve, we’re stuck there. End of story.”

Castiel sighed, marking his page with a finger wedged between the pages. “We couldn’t carry enough food anyway. Look in some of the other books. Colt wasn’t the only one to leave and come back, simply the only one not to come back alone.”

Dean rifled through the stacks around them and unearthed a thick-leather bound volume. He leaned back against the seats and starting leafing through. Castiel sighed and reopened the memoirs; let Dean come to his own conclusions, Castiel wasn’t going to question such a blessing.

“Huh,” Dean said sometime later, an unintentional echo of Castiel. “Well, that’s convenient.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.

 

 

Dean’s heart thundered in his chest as Charlie stopped outside Bobby’s house— it was easily recognized by the soldier at his door. By now, news had to have spread of the King and his lover’s departure from Lavendel, and though they’d snagged a plain carriage, the soldiers took to flanking it as they made their way to Bobby’s.

Dean flung open the doors to carriage, his crown nestled on his head. Cas followed him out; he didn’t wear a crown, and Dean felt weird being the only one. The people that had trailed them on the streets stood, staring in awe. Dean recognized many of them, and he’d never felt so separate from them. He gave only a short wave and an order to the guards to start bringing things inside before lacing his hand through Cas’ and walking right inside, Charlie on their heels.

“Bobby?” Dean called. Next to him, Cas sucked in a breath, his grip on Dean’s hand tightening as the old man rounded the corner from the kitchen and stopped in front of them.

Bobby looked mostly the same as he always had, maybe a bit older, his wrinkles more pronounced and his hairline a little farther back on his scalp. Without saying a word, Dean stepped forward in the same moment as Bobby, colliding with his foster father with a soft thump. He closed his eyes, remembering the last hug Bobby had given him, nearly eight years ago. Cas and Charlie stood silently back, hands folded in front of them.

“Well,” Bobby commented, drawing away, “His Majesty finally decided to show up.” His tone was sarcastic, but his eyes held unshed tears. “It’s been a long time.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, stepping away as well. “It has. ‘Lot’s changed. You got my letter, right?”

“Would I have let you in if I hadn’t? Normally when scoundrels show up at my doorstep, I whack ‘em with a broom.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head as he stepped around to face Cas and Charlie. “Bobby, this is Charlie. She’s gonna be staying with you while Cas and I are gone. And that’s Cas, my…” Meeting Cas’ eyes, the word ‘partner’ suddenly didn’t seem quite right, but what else was there? “Well, he’s the love of my life. That’s all I got.”

Cas’ face went red and his blue eyes shone as he stepped forward to shake Bobby’s hand. “Hello. I’ve heard much about you.”

Bobby looked him over with a raised eyebrow. “Hmm,” he said, and Dean tensed. “You're way out of this idjit’s league.”

Cas looked stunned for a moment before smiling sheepishly and stepping aside, moving next to Dean. Charlie shook Bobby’s hand as well and she stepped away right as the soldiers carried in Sam’s coffin.

Any lingering humor was sucked from the air as a shadow fell across Bobby’s face and Dean’s stomach lurched. He and Sam had left here as two gangly teens, and now here they were returned, a King and a corpse.

“Thank you,” Cas addressed the guards, “you're dismissed. Return to your usual posts.” Dean was grateful and reached a hand towards the one Cas had hidden in the folds of his cloak.

Bobby turned to them, a tear trailing its way down his cheek. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

The three travellers shed their cloaks, draping them over the back of one of the larger armchairs in the living room. After a moment of thought, Dean placed his crown on the end table next to it.

“So,” Bobby started once Dean joined them at the table in the kitchen, “mind explaining this suicide expedition of yours?”

“Did you not _read_ the letter? I have to save Sam!” Dean said for what felt like the millionth time. On the table in front of him, the letters _SW_ were carved into the wood. He traced his fingers over them idly. “I’m not gonna leave my little brother to suffer.”

Bobby sighed. “What if you don’t come back? I won’t lose you, too, boy.”

Dean closed his eyes, sighing deeply. They’d come back. They had to. “We will,” he promised, insisted.

Bobby stared at him for a long moment, Dean not backing down from his gaze. Admitting defeat, Bobby let a breath out slowly, still staring Dean down. “If you're dead-set on running off to get yourself killed, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.” His gaze flicked to Cas. “You're going with him?” Cas nodded solemnly, his face set and his eyes steady. He wasn’t afraid.

Angels, Dean was _terrified._ Terrified of the creatures in the Dead Lands, terrified he’d lose Cas there, terrified they’d come back without Sam. He’d grown up hearing horror stories about the Boiling Ocean, and all those stories swam in his mind, nearly breaking his resolve.

 _We’re going to be okay,_ Cas had said. How could he be so calm? So sure?

Bobby looked back to Dean. “Kinda shocked you're letting him come. And by letting, I mean I’m surprised he’s not chained to a chair in the dungeons.”

Dean smirked as Cas glared. “The thought crossed my mind.” Cas’ glare intensified. “But he made some very good points, so here he is.”

“Cas is Celestial,” Charlie explained. “He’s got healing powers.”

Bobby’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I guess that can’t hurt. Why didn’t—” he glanced at the coffin, “—why didn’t you save Sam?”

Cas closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Dean had never blamed him for Sam’s death, not for a second, but that didn’t mean Cas didn’t blame himself.

“I tried,” he said through gritted teeth. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Don’t,” Dean and Charlie protested in unison.

“Don’t do that, Cas,” Dean continued. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“You saved everyone else,” Charlie reminded.

Cas just sighed heavily, uneasy silence settling over the group. Bobby cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair, and said, “So, tell me everything. Your letters weren’t exactly novels.”

Dean looked at Cas and together they embarked on telling the story that was more or less common knowledge around Lavendel. Soon, the whole country would know what had happened.

They talked long into the night, Dean and Cas doing the bulk of the explaining with Charlie chiming in once in awhile. They eventually shifted from the topic of the revolution to life in general, telling stories of the little things like when Cas had nearly impaled himself the first time he’d picked up a sword, Dean’s aversion to flying, and the many adventures of trying to care for Alex. By the time they were all ready for bed, Dean felt like he’d never left  the city by the sea.

He led a sleepy Cas by the hand to his childhood bedroom. It looked exactly the same as he’d left it— cleaner, certainly, but the same. He and Sam had shared this bed all their lives, as the room was originally a guest room and had gone back to being so once they’d left Revelan. It still housed many of their things, though, and Dean ran a hand over Sam’s old books, a small smile on his face. Sam had been crushed to leave them behind, but they could only fit so much in their small carriage. Maybe when Dean brought him back there would be enough room.

Dean’s stomach lurched as he realized they were leaving for the journey tomorrow. He’d managed to put it out of his mind while they reminisced with Bobby, but it all came rushing back to him, the fear, the stakes.

“Cas,” he said, turning to the bed to find a tuft of dark hair sticking out from under the blanket.

Cas groaned and tugged the blanket down, revealing his flushed, tired face and irritated sapphire eyes. “We have a long journey tomorrow, Dean. Bed. Now.”

“Cas, I’m scared,” Dean blurted, fidgeting with his hands. He wasn’t supposed to be scared. Kings weren’t afraid, they were brave.

The statement made Cas sit up, hands braced behind him. “That’s fine, Dean. Normal.”

“Are you scared?”

Cas looked at him for a long moment and sighed. “No, I have faith in us.”

Dean plopped down on the bed, his back to Cas. “I’m trying not to be... but it’s scary. All my life I’ve heard these terrible stories about the Dead Lands. I never imagined I’d be going there, and I’m terrified but you're so chill about the whole thing! And I—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. Dean shivered. “Dean, I understand. There’s nothing wrong with being afraid.”

“You're not afraid.”

“That just means you're braver than I am. Bravery isn’t the lack of fear, it’s the overcoming of it.”

Dean twisted around and squinted at him. “What are you, then?”

“Perhaps I’m insane.”

Dean laughed and swung his legs onto the bed, burrowing under the covers. “I’m not gonna argue with that one.”

Cas whacked him lightly on the shoulder but snuggled into Dean’s side anyway, resting his head on his chest. Dean turned into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and squeezing his eyes shut. Tomorrow, they would sail, sail for days and days— a week, according to Samuel Colt. Then it would be another week of finding Sam, according to another nighttime vision from Gabriel.

At least, a week in the mortal realm. Who knew how long it would feel like there.

At any rate, tonight was the last night in a while they would get to spend like this, pressed against each other and warm and safe. So, Dean held on tightly, hoping it would be enough to get him through.

 

 

Dean stood on the docks, the wind whipping his cape around him as he beheld the Brenna Sea. He hadn’t been on the water since he’d left, though while preparing their small ship, he felt like he’d done it every day. Some things you never forgot, were ingrained in your muscles. Cas was already on board, going over their luggage to make sure they were prepared for the journey. They knew very little about the Dead Lands, and while they’d decided to trust that they wouldn’t need food or drink while there, they had no clue about the Ocean itself. Plus, it would take the entire day to cross Brenna.

Dean turned when he heard Bobby’s footsteps approaching. Bobby sighed when he reached him. “You're coming back,” he commanded.

Dean smirked, but there was no humor in it. “‘Course.”

Bobby sighed and yanked him in for a bone-crushing hug, which Dean returned in kind. His foster father patted him on the shoulder. “Go save your brother.”

Dean gave him a two-fingered salute and started off towards the ship where Cas leaned against the main deck, his cloak billowing behind him. He looked more like a King than Dean. One day, Cas _would_ be King, Dean realized with a jolt. With any luck.

Dean heaved himself onto the deck and cut the rope tying them to the docks with one swipe of his sword. Cas said nothing. The waves immediately pulled them East, towards the Boiling Ocean, their ultimate destination.

They’d get there. One way or another, they’d get there.

 

 

Castiel knew when the Brenna Sea ended and the Boiling Ocean began.

The waters themselves bore no true noticeable difference— it was the air above the waters that was different, exactly as Dean described it. The souls just… appeared over the border, pulled towards that far-off horizon, no emotions on their faces. They became visible about an hour into the journey East, and Castiel’s first glimpse of a human soul chilled him to his core.

It was just a pinprick in the distance but he knew exactly what he was, even if he couldn’t make out a shape. There were a couple others floating around, and more joining every second.

How many lost their lives every second of every day? Castiel had never thought about that, the fact that people died every day in hordes and there was nothing to be done about it.

Unless, it seemed, you were Sam Winchester. How was it fair to save him and no one else?

True that Sam was trapped in the worst part of the Dead Lands, Lucifer’s throne in the State of Suffering, when he should have gone to the Jubilant State. It still seemed wrong to Castiel to save one man when there were plenty more suffering.

“It’s different,” Dean insisted when Castiel brought his thoughts up. “For everyone else, they’re supposed to be there. It’s the natural order, Cas: you do bad things in life, you get bad things done to you.”

“With no opportunity for redemption?”  
Dean turned his green eyes on him, eyes that reflected the sea. “I don’t know, Cas. I don’t make the rules.”

Castiel sighed and stared towards the horizon. “Who does?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“If Gabriel appears again, you should ask him.”

“Will do, Cas.”

Castiel watched the souls appear on the horizon, some destined for peace, others for agony, and wondered if there were some things they just couldn’t change.

 

 

The border between the Brenna Sea and the Dead Lands was near tangible, despite it being invisible. Dean could feel it though, the mortal plane trying to hold him in, his living, breathing flesh tingling with the desire to turn back, abandon ship.

Dean would do neither. He’d nearly sacrificed everything— Cas, Eureva— for Sam, and he’d lost him anyway. But now, there was no reason Dean couldn’t protect his country, Cas, and Sam. He’d like to see someone try and stop him.

The souls that marked the barrier were no more than six fathoms away. Dean rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and reached for Cas with the other. Cas took it and stepped in, his shoulder brushing Dean’s.

They’d been standing there all day, watching. The boat steered itself at a certain point. Everything makes its way to the end.

Passing over the border felt like being shoved through a wall of wind, the pressure sucking at Dean’s skin and forcing the air from his lungs. Lightning flashed once they were over, the thunder a quick second behind.

 _‘You're not supposed to be here’,_ the wind seemed to whisper.

Dean looked over at Cas and nearly jumped out of his skin. He was glowing faintly, a soft blue light eerily similar to the color of his eyes. Dean looked down at his own skin. He was decidedly _not_ glowing.

“Uh, Cas?”

Cas frowned. “What?”

Dean held up their joined hands. “Um?”

Cas stared at his skin as the light started to fade. “That’s... very strange. Your skin isn’t glowing.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Wow, thank you for that observation. Why are you glowing?”

“Probably something to do with my Angelic blood.” Cas shrugged. “It’s going away.”

“Hey, I have Angelic blood, too!”

“It’s very diluted. No, your blood, while unique, would not be classified as Angelic. Powerful, though.”

Dean ran a thumb over Cas’ still barely glowing hand. “Well, if that’s not a sign that we’re where we’re supposed to be, I don’t know what is. Do you feel tired?”

“Not at all. I’m not hungry, either. Good thing.”

Dean nodded. The Ocean around them was roiling, swaying the boat. Dean drew his sword. The monsters in the water would be different than the Demons in the Dead Lands; they were vicious, wild attackers, while Demons were more cunning— much harder to kill.

The sky cracked again, lightning striking the water uncomfortably close to their ship. Dean stepped closer to Cas, who also drew a sword.

The souls around them didn’t seem to notice; they only looked at the horizon, letting the wind drag them inland.

The Ocean spat their first monster right onto the deck, a large, grey, scaled mass with fangs the length of Dean’s forearm and no real head, just a curved back and a mouth. It didn’t even seem to have eyes. Dean sliced it in half the second it was within range of his sword and it went over. Dean kicked the remaining half over the edge, back into the water.

He turned to Cas with a sigh. “It’s gonna be a long week.”

The monster, apparently not dead, proved this by hopping back on deck, onto Dean, wrapping its long fingers around his throat. Startled, Dean hit the floor, a jolt of pain shooting through his knees as Cas lunged forward and skewered the thing through its open mouth. The monster was knocked off Dean, who scrambled forward, panting. Cas pinned the thing to the ground, eyes wide. After a few tense seconds, it crumbled into grey dust, blown to the water in a spiral of wind.

“Yes,” said Cas, straightening. “It’s going to be a long week.”

 

 

The journey across the Ocean passed in much the same manner. The attacks were non-stop; every time they turned around, a new monster awaited them. Luckily, they didn’t tire, though Dean would have been dead a hundred times over if it hadn’t been for Cas healing him.

“And you didn’t wanna bring me,” Cas would mutter after every healing. Maybe it was deserved, but Dean glared at him just the same.

When the faint strip of land became visible on the horizon, Dean paused his chopping up of an eel thrice as thick as just one of his thighs. “Cas,” he called.

Cas tossed the carcass of a three-headed fish over the side of the boat and followed Dean’s gaze. He slumped in relief. “I don’t suppose it’s going to be more pleasant than this, but thank the Angels.”

Dean grunted as he severed the spine of the eel and dropped it to turn to dust. Certain creatures, they discovered, were healed by the Ocean and had to disintegrate before sweeping it back into the water. Other creatures, like the fish thing Cas had just dealt with, could go back in after it was dead. They didn’t know or care why.

“We won’t be there for a couple more hours,” Dean said, scanning the deck for any new threats. Though he hadn’t physically tired in the week they’d been sailing, there was a kind of tired in his soul weighing him down with every breath, every movement. Humans weren’t supposed to go this long without a damn break.

Cas nodded absently, also scanning the area. When it was clear there was no immediate threat, his eyes snapped to Dean. Though he’d stopped glowing soon after they’d crossed the border, his eyes still seemed to have some otherworldly quality about them, as if his gaze was tangible. Dean repressed a shudder.

Cas crossed the deck and planted his palm on Dean’s cheek, healing wounds he hadn’t even noticed he’d acquired.

“Thanks,” he breathed, unable to look away from the sheer force of those blue eyes. Cas kissed him lightly, only able to spare a moment before some inevitable threat came at them.

As it happened, the boat gave a frightening creak before it tipped and they went careening into the railing, the metal biting into Dean’s gut before the boat rocked the other way and they flew into the other side.

“What the _fuck,”_ Dean shouted, able to catch the railing this time so his arms absorbed the shock. Cas was less lucky in hitting his head against the rail. He looked dazed for only a moment before his powers kicked in, taking care of the already-forming welt on his temple.

The ship righted itself, tumbling Dean and Cas into the center of the deck. Dean didn’t dare get up, seizing Cas’ sleeve in one hand and snatching up his sword in the other.

For a split second, everything was still.

Then, a vibrantly orange mother-of-all-octopi burst from the sea, tentacles flailing and beak open in an ear-piercing shriek. Dean dropped Cas and his sword in favor of clamping his hands over his ears, though it did little against the creature’s battle cry. Blood trickled over his palms. _Shit._

The sound ceased but the buzzing in Dean’s ears continued to drown out anything else. Cas, of course, didn’t have the same issue, but his legs were shaking as he stood. How much healing had he done today? Dean cursed and stood as well, dragging his sword up with him.

The monster peeked one eye open at them, and Dean didn’t see much of a point in wasting an opportunity. He drew a dagger from his boot— no way was he losing his sword to a fuckin mutated grapefruit— and flung it into the large, mist-shrouded eye.

It struck home, sending the monster flailing backwards. The displaced water sent them back a bit, but Dean didn’t care as long as the thing was dead. Though, in retrospect, he doubted something of that size couldn’t be killed by a dagger.

Ten seconds passed. The octopus had either died or simply given up. Dean turned to Cas who stretched out a hand to heal his ears, but Dean held his sword between them.

“Dean,” Cas said, though his voice was muffled. Dean would have to resort to reading his lips. “Your ears.”

“You're tired,” Dean argued, his own distorted voice echoing around his head painfully, though he refused to wince. “If you heal me any more you’ll pass out. Take a minute to rest.”

Cas shook his head, stepping forward again, but Dean stepped back. “Dean, your eardrums are ruptured. What if something comes aboard and you can’t hear it?”

“ _You_ can hear just fine.”

Cas glared. Dean glared back. The octopus rushed out of the water, emitting that same, ear-piercing shriek that had both Dean and Cas on the ground in a moment.

Dean groaned as he felt his eardrums _burst,_ blood and other weird fluids coating his hands as he scrambled into the cabin for another dagger. He grabbed three and was intercepted on the way out of the door by Cas, who latched onto his wrist. The world returned to full sound, and the first thing he heard, aside from the water lapping against the sides of the ship, was Cas hitting the ground with a thud.

Dean spilled his blades to the ground as he frantically searched for Cas’ pulse. Slow, but steady. “Idiot,” Dean cursed, dragging him into the cabin. He dumped him onto the small cot before charging back out onto the deck, snatching up the dropped knives.

The octopus had draped its tentacles over the deck, weighing it considerably. Dean gritted his teeth and sheathed his various daggers, scooping up his sword to hack at the closest tentacle. It wedged itself halfway in— impressive, considering the appendage was nearly as wide as Dean was tall. He yanked it back out and chopped again, managing to sever the tender flesh completely.

The octopus wailed as its detached tentacle turned to dust. Dean groaned. How was he supposed to kill this thing?

He withdrew one of his daggers and took a moment to aim it right, directly between the eyeballs. It struck, but only served to annoy the octopus, which swept its tentacle across the deck, knocking Dean over. It was all he could do not to impale himself on his sword.

He stood, covered in octopus goo, head throbbing, face coated in dust and grime and blood. Fucking octopus. He was Dean Winchester. He’d killed a dragon. He was the goddamn _King._ Fuck this octopus.

“Hey!” he called. The octopus looked towards him. It still had a dagger in its left eye and forehead. “Yeah, you. Fuck off. Just— fuck off, and tell all your other buddies down there to fuck off, too. I’m tired of it. Go bug someone else. We’re a little busy here.”

The octopus blinked at him— well, it could only shut one eye, but Dean could tell it was a blink— and squawked indignantly. Then Dean was bashed with a tentacle for a second time.

Angels, Dean really was tired. Tired of everything. He didn’t want to fight monsters, or take care of the country, or even take care of himself, really. He just wanted to sleep, but even if he tried he’s just end up staring at a wall, body refusing the rest his soul so desperately needed.

Maybe it was the lack of Cas at his back, or maybe it was the double head injury, but Dean dropped his sword and gripped his remaining daggers in both hands before heaving himself over the railing, boots slipping against the metal, and jumped.

The octopus’ flesh was not a great surface for Dean to secure his daggers, so when he plunged them into its side, he went zipping down towards the water. The beast issued its terrible scream, but Dean was ready this time and did not move to cover his ears, even as blood trickled down his face again. His boots landed on a tentacle, and Dean began slashing and cutting, absolutely drenched in octopus blood, before slipping into the water, daggers still raised.

The Boiling Ocean was surprisingly clear underneath the surface. Monsters swam in the depth, some swimming along peacefully, many brawling with one another. As if they smelled Dean, their heads whipped up as one, hungry teeth bared.

Perhaps he’d made a mistake.

Dean kicked back towards the surface, scrambling for the ladder on the side of the boat. His boots had barely cleared the top rung before a scaly hand appeared. Dean stomped on it and scrambled onto the deck, back to deal with this _fucking_ octopus.

He wondered how many before him had battled this creature. How many had done the same dumbass thing he’d just done, invite every nasty monster from the depths of the Ocean to come play. He wondered how many would come after.

Dean gritted his teeth and flung another dagger into the creature’s other eye. This time, however, it did not fall back, instead falling _forward,_ right toward Dean. He dropped into a crouch, grabbing his sword and thrusting upwards, close to where his second dagger had hit.

The monster disintegrated in a shower of orange all around Dean, who collapsed at the sudden release of weight.

However.

The smaller monsters had started gathering, though none were attacking. They all seemed to be staring at his sword, coated in countless layers of blood, blood of their kind, blood of the giant terrorizing octopus, and they looked like they were reconsidering. Dean bared his teeth and let out a low growl and they practically scampered away over the sides of the railing.

He sighed and dropped his sword, sinking to his knees. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that they hadn’t killed him. His ears were buzzing again and his head throbbed, but he rested his cheek against the dust-covered floor. He was safe now. He’d staked his spot at top of the food chain, and these water demons were unlikely to bother him for a while longer, hopefully. Though he still couldn’t sleep, some part of him cried in relief at the chance to just _stop._

 

 

Castiel awoke to silence, which terrified him out of his mind. Things were not silent on this ship.

He swung out of the cot, hating that Dean had been right. He’d done too much healing and passed out from it, and now everything was quiet.

Slowly, Castiel opened the door to the cabin. The floor was covered in orange dust. He frowned, toeing at it with his boot. Was this all that remained of that monstrous beast?

He looked out across the deck and his stomach, heart, and any and all other organs dropped when he beheld Dean, prone on the deck and absolutely drenched in blood.

For a moment he couldn’t move, breathe, think, barely even existed. His hands shook violently at his sides as he took a step forward, leaving a distinct footprint in the orange dust.

Another step.

No tears flowed down his face but his entire body vibrated as he approached his fallen lover, fallen King. he himself falling to his knees when he reached Dean. He saw no injuries, but he was lying on his front.

Castiel didn’t trust his muscles enough to attempt rolling him over, so instead he slid two fingers down the column of Dean’s neck, his still-warm skin.

He found a pulse, and his breath came back to him in a rush, his heart diverting its path downwards to rocket back up. He still shook, however, as he flipped Dean onto his back. His eyes were closed. He was alive, but unconscious.

Castiel furrowed his brow. Dare he heal him? He wasn’t sure he was back to full strength, and if healing Dean knocked him out again, who knew what else he would miss.

Castiel jerked his head up to the horizon. It was much closer now, maybe less than an hour away. He bit his lip. He had no idea how or where they would dock their vessel. Dean did. He sighed and placed his palm on Dean’s forward, easing his magic forward much slower than he would normally have done, but even still, Dean’s eyes were open within seconds.

Just as Castiel suspected, the moment Dean assessed the situation, he smacked Castiel’s hand away. “Really? You pass out from too much healing and the first thing you do when you wake up is _more healing?_ ”

“It’s not my fault you have a particular knack for injuring yourself.”

“Still,” Dean argued brilliantly as he sat up, putting himself at eye level with Castiel.

Castiel flicked him in the head, hard. Dean scrunched his face up derisively at him. “I thought you were dead for a second, you ass.”

Dean stood, dragging Castiel up with him. He kissed him lightly on the forehead before crushing his shoulders in his arms. “Sorry.”

Castiel wound his arms around his waist, closing his eyes. “I know.” He was _not_ going to cry, not when Dean had almost died a handful of times on this journey already and especially not when he was okay. He wasn’t quite willing to let go of him anytime soon, though, either.

However, this was the Boiling Ocean, and the current lack of sea creatures attempting to eat them was suspicious at best, so he pulled away, but not far, hands still flat against Dean’s waist. “What happened?”

Dean glared at the orange dust on the ground. “Long story short, I killed the octopus, and the rest of the little beasts just backed off. I don’t know if they’re afraid of us now or if they hated that _fucking_ octopus, too.”

“Why is there so much blood on you?” It was on Castiel now, too, though neither of them had been any amount of clean before this ordeal.

Dean shuddered. “Ugh. I don’t wanna talk about it. It’s not mine, though.”

Castiel nodded and stepped back into Dean’s space, resting his cheek on his collarbone. Dean happily accepted him, running his fingers through the hair on the back of his neck. They stayed there for a while, until the horizon became land, lush green grass calling to them.

They’d reached the Jubilant state; they were in the Dead Lands.

 

 

Mary Winchester stood on the shore, dress flowing around her ankles in the wind. She didn’t dare touch the water. Her husband stood beside her, rubbing at his palms anxiously. She didn’t blame him. They hadn’t seen their son for decades, now, and he would soon arrive, flesh and blood and alive.

Mary still felt like she was alive, even here, even as a spirit. She wondered if she would feel different, meeting her truly living son.

Her son. When the newly dead had arrived days ago, talking about a King and a ship and a Celestial, Mary had suspected, but it wasn’t until only three hours ago that she’d gotten confirmation: Dean Winchester, King of Eureva, was sailing to the Dead Lands to save his brother.

Mary hadn’t known that Sam was here as well, and she ached at the thought. If he was not here, he could only be in the State of Suffering. She refused to believe her baby deserved to be there. When Dean arrived, it would be the one question she insisted on. She would forego questions about the man he travelled with, how he defeated Crowley, how he’d discovered the truth, in order to know that Sam had been good.

When the ship came into view, John sucked in a sharp gasp, but Mary only smiled. For so long, they’d expected to be kept waiting for their sons for decades, years and years of patience.

She’d known exactly where they would arrive— the strange magic of the Boiling Ocean pulled all things to where they needed to go, and ships needed to be docked, so Dean and his companion would arrive at the docks of the Jubilant State, hopefully the final resting place of their souls.

Dean did not glance their way at first, but that was fine. He probably didn’t have much memory of them, and assumed they were two normal souls. She watched him secure the ship, tying ropes and locking the cabin door, only after arming himself and the other, dark-haired man with knives to spare. Good. Where they were going, there was no precaution too great.

Mary was impressed, though, by the ease with which each of them moved, even saddled with so many weapons. She had so many questions for her son. Was it experience with being so weighed with knives and daggers, or was he simply adept at placing each weapon in such a way that they did not bother him?

Dean climbed down the ladder on the side of the boat slowly, with two ropes in hand, which he tied to either side of the dock. Only then did the dark-haired man join him, tossing Dean a dark green cloak while he donned a tan one. Mary did not miss the joining of their hands amidst the folds of the cloaks.

She took her own husband’s hand and began walking to meet them. The living pair did not falter until Mary was close enough to make out Dean’s features, and therefore close enough for him to recognize them.

He stopped, bringing the other man to a halt as well. John’s hand tightened on hers, but Mary again only smiled.

“Dean,” she greeted, “it’s been so long.”

“Mom,” Dean choked out, green eyes, Mary’s eyes, wide. “Dad.”

John smiled as well, nodding his head. “It’s good to see you, son.”

“I—” Dean ran a hand through his hair, shooting a glance at his companion. “Um, this is Cas. Castiel. Cas, my parents, obviously.” Dean’s eyes returned to Mary. “I wish I could stay and talk, but I have to—”

“Save Sam,” Mary finished, smile dimming somewhat. “We know. We have waited a long time, and we can wait longer for answers. I only have one question. What did your brother do to need saving?”

Dean’s face crumpled, pure agony, and Castiel answered for him. “He died working against Lucifer. When he came here, I suppose the Devil was enacting revenge.”

Mary could have died again for the relief flooding through her, and her smile grew until she could have sworn her cheeks ached, though in the Jubilant State nothing ached, not like that. “Thank you. Please, don’t let us delay you any longer.”

Dean, though reluctant, made to walk away, but Castiel pulled him back. “The ship is safe here?”

“Yes,” John answered, eyes narrowed on their now visibly clasped hands. “We’ll stay here and make sure of it.”

“How will we know where to go to find Sam?”

Mary looked at her son. “He knows the way. Blood leads to blood.”

Castiel nodded and began to walk away as well, but he turned back one last time. “If it’s not too much trouble, my mother—”

“What was her name?” Mary asked, already knowing what he was getting at. She understood. The first person she had asked for upon her death was her mother as well.

“Marie,” Castiel said, voice cracked. “Marie Elliot.”

Mary nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” She looked between the two men— boys, really, boys with far too much pain in their eyes and weight on their shoulders. She had half a mind to go with them just so she could skin Crowley herself. “Please come back,” she pleaded, “alive.”

Dean forced a smile. “Don’t worry about us.”

He began walking away, Castiel in tow, and Mary sighed. Don’t worry, her ass.

 

 

Walking away from his parents nearly ripped Dean in two, but he kept walking. The longer they spent chit-chatting was the longer Sam was being tortured by Lucifer. On the water, he hadn’t had much control over how fast they went— couldn’t focus on it, thanks to the unrelenting attacks. But now their speed relied on them, their feet and Dean’s sense of direction.

A laugh nearly ripped free from Dean’s chest when they reached a forest. They’d never escape the trees, though these woods weren’t even a quarter the size of Hale.

Dean missed Lavendel, he realized. Missed the mountains and the forest and the market, the starry skies, the castle. He missed training with the Guard and taking care of Alex and dinner with Jess. He even kind of missed playing twenty questions with the citizens and the endless reports about stuff he was only vaguely interested in. He wished he had some way of knowing how everything was going, what everyone was doing. How Jess was handling her temporary Queenhood.

Dean would make it back to Lavendel, even if he returned broken and battered. He’d get home, no matter what it cost his mind, cost his soul.

 

 

The trek through the Jubilant State was tedious and silent. Nothing approached them as they hiked through the forest, not even a bird or a deer. Castiel wondered if the creatures simply did not exist there, or if they retreated due to the strange, living sense of them in a world founded and thriving on death.

The hours spent hiking through that forest blurred. Without the need for rest, Castiel lost track of how long it had been since they’d docked on these shores, met John and Mary Winchester.

Castiel would have known them without Dean’s introduction. He looked at them and saw Dean, especially in Mary’s matching emerald eyes. He wondered if Dean would be able to say the same of Castiel and his mother.

Castiel did not remember her face. Could not recall the shape of her jaw, the color of her eyes, her hair. The details were lost to the recesses of his memory, but he would recognize her if he saw her again. Even if only for a moment.

He may even meet his father if they were successful, he realized with a jolt. Castiel didn’t have the faintest clue what the man looked like.

A break in the trees ahead of them had Dean’s steps slowing, faltering. No light filtered through the branches, as it did behind them.

Dean exchanged a look with him, heaving a breath. Castiel nodded, and they marched on.

Dean had explained to him what he’d seen of the State of Suffering in his dream, and he’d certainly read about it, but there was nothing that could have prepared him for this.

The cold nipped at Castiel’s face, so different from the pleasant warmth of the Jubilant State. He supposed it had to be cold, to keep the blood floor frozen.

If he sat still enough, would his blood freeze in his very veins?

Castiel reached out for Dean, who gladly took his hand, face white. Together, they stepped off the soft green moss marking the edge of the forest, the edge of safety and onto that frozen wasteland, the final resting place of the wicked and nasty.

For Sam, bearing this was no question. For Dean, falling further and further into himself with every passing day without Sam.

Castiel believed that Dean could have come to terms with Sam’s death one day, if Sam had gone to the Jubilant State, had be been safe with their parents here. He would have survived the loss. He could not survive abandoning his brother to the wolves without doing something about it.

So even as their boots slipped, the cold winds tore at them, the screams of the damned pierced their eyes, Dean and Castiel clasped each other’s hands, and did not let go.

 

 

Dean couldn’t explain it, the tug in his chest, that pull to Sam. It was less of an instinct and more like a well-worn path his feet carried him on, muscle memory leading the way.

For the first day of their journey, nothing attacked them. They walked hand in hand, no need for a weapon. Maybe the real danger was the fear, Dean realized. At this point, he was as likely to attack a baby as a monster.

It was almost a relief when the first Demon lunged at them. After hours and hours of bone-chilling _nothing,_ Dean was itching for a fight.

A fight that was over too quickly, in his opinion. Just an easy arc of his sword through the air, and the Demon was reduced to ash on the ground.

So it went. Dean found it very hard to comprehend how anyone got themselves killed in this frozen land of screaming souls and half-assed attacks, but then again, it was possible that the accumulation of cuts and scrapes might have killed Dean at some point if it weren’t for Cas.

Cas, currently, was stabbing something Dean wasn’t quite paying attention to as he battled his own very literal Demon. He let his body take over, performing the moves he’d done a hundred times before. His thoughts wandered to Cas, as they always seemed to do, Cas or Sam.

Dean wondered, not for the first time, why in the name of the Angels Cas had followed him here. Cas had followed him before— out of the castle, onto the back of a dragon, into battle, but here? He had to be insane. The stubborn refusal to leave Dean perplexed him. What made him so worthy of following?

Cas dropped his Demon. Dean dispatched his own. The world was silent as they regarded each other, chests heaving, covered in blood. Dean missed baths.

“Are you hurt?” Cas asked.

Dean shook his head. “You?”

“That doesn’t matter very much.”

Dean frowned. He knew that, but the way Cas said it was… disconcerting. Less to do with his healing powers automatically healing any wound he received and more to do with something else.

“Yeah?” Dean challenged, sheathing his sword without bothering to wipe the blade clean. “How’s that?”

Cas shot him a withering look. “Lead the way, Majesty.”

Dean kicked him in the shin. “No need to be pissy, Cas.”

“I’ll be as pissy as I want on a hike through—” Cas waved a hand “—this.”

Dean held out his hand anyway. Cas took it, glaring at the space over Dean’s shoulder. Maybe Cas was reconsidering his decision to follow him, too. “Seriously,” Dean said, softening his voice as much as he could without crossing into condescension, “are you alright?”

Cas sighed, shoulders slumping. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m tired of this. I want to go home.”

Dean closed his eyes, feet continuing to drag him along the unseen path to Sam. Home. “The palace?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “No, the fish market. Where else?”

Dean shrugged. “Guess it still doesn’t really feel like ‘home’ to me.”

Cas squeezed his fingers. “I know. It will.”

Dean believed him. Once they got Sam back, there would be… light. There would be plans and improvements and family dinners and hikes in the mountains and tours of the city, a tour of the country, sunny days and star-flecked nights. Home.

Dean began to smile, just as he was tackled from behind, face slamming into the frozen ground. He felt claws on his back, hot breath in his ear, and as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, cast aside with the glorious sound of a dagger burying itself in the skull of some gremlin.

Dean rolled over, looked up at Cas. Against the muted, wrong colors of the sky, he was like staring into the sun.

Cas stretched out a hand. Dean took it. This was the part where he said thanks.

Instead, words he’d been considering since that damn octopus tumbled out of his mouth: “Will you marry me?”

Cas blinked at him. “Did you hit your head?”

“Not in the last five minutes.” His heart beat wildly in his chest. He couldn’t believe he’d said that, and yet he didn’t think the answer would be any different at a fancy palace than it was here.

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I don’t see why not.”

Dean laughed, part humor and part relief. The sound felt foreign. He didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed, surely hadn’t thought the next one would be here, of all places. “That’s just what every guy wants to hear. How romantic.”

“Almost as romantic as proposing in the middle of the literal heart of pain and suffering.”

“Which is why we need a mood lifter.”

Cas smiled at him, all gums. Dean grinned back and squeezed his hand. “I can’t believe we haven’t even known each other a year and I just agreed to marry you.”

“Long ass year.” Cas hummed in agreement. “Well then, _Majesty,”_ Dean addressed. Cas grimaced. “On we go.”

 

 

Castiel had never once doubted that Dean knew where they were going, but it was still a bit of a shock when the horizon faded from angry red to the ivory abyss Dean had described as Sam’s prison.

Each step was heavier. The air stilled, the screams faded, and Castiel could not find his voice no matter how hard he tried.

This was what would break them. Break Dean. The silence. Even the thudding in his veins quieted, all thoughts slumbering somewhere he could not reach.

The silence.

It affected Dean before it touched Castiel. Barely three feet into the world with no top and no bottom, no beginning and no end, and Dean was twitching, eyes darting around, hands flexing in and out of fists, breathing heavy. Dean Winchester was not a creature of calm, of solitude, even when it involved the sounds of a babbling brook, birds tweeting, wind blowing, _something._

The silence pressed on Castiel, a living, tangible thing. Quiet. Too quiet.

He turned to Dean, meaning to say something, but his voice could not survive in the quietude.

Castiel closed his eyes, letting the utter senselessness wash over him, tug at his fragile sanity, threaten to overwhelm him.

He opened his eyes. He continued walking, dragging Dean with him. A bad dream. This was simply a bad dream.

There was no telling how long it would take them to reach Sam; no one had ever ventured into Lucifer’s realm in the Dead Lands and returned. This did not bode well for their general resolve, but there had to be a first time for everything. Castiel clung to that feeble hope more desperately than he clung to Dean.

But in the absence of sound, Castiel had only his thoughts to turn to, and his thoughts brutally reminded him of the fact that any amount of hope was foolish. How could they take on Lucifer and all six of his sons in a land where they were invincible? Even if they managed to retrieve Sam, how would they escape? How much of Sam was even left to save, if he’d spent months in this pressing silence?

Castiel refused to think like that. The concept of coming this far and falling short was inconceivable to him, so he looked forward, beyond the Nothing, beyond the silence, through frozen blood and stormy sea once more. He looked to the shores of Revelan, where Bobby and Charlie awaited their return. He imagined the journey home, to Lavendel, the stories they would exchange, the weightlessness of their homecoming compared to the drag of their onset. He pictured Jess’ face upon their arrival, Sam meeting his son, the kingdom rejoicing. A wedding. Dean, smiling, Jess, happy, Sam, living. Castiel ached for home.

But his feet continued to carry him away. Dean was shaking, his knees looking likely to buckle at any moment.

They did not. They continued walking, until there was a disruption in the Nothing. Castiel could have wept in relief, in fear.

Dean’s white-knuckle grip tightened, though his shaking did not cease.

Castiel did not doubt for a moment that Lucifer had been aware of their presence for the entirety of their journey through the Dead Lands, perhaps even since the moment they breached the waters of the Boiling Ocean, but that knowledge had never been accompanied with the image of a cruel face, pristine wings, and Sam Winchester, thoroughly drained and empty at the Angel’s feet.

Castiel did not even bother looking at the Nephilim seated around their father, not even Crowley. He suspected Lucifer’s pride would get in the way of him utilizing his sons, as he let the two of them make their way all the way up to him, mere yards away from Sam.

_Sam._

The younger Winchester rested on his knees at Lucifer’s throne, head leaning against oozing black chains and looking very, very dead. He did not even turn to look at them. Perhaps he hadn’t heard their approach. Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered either way.

The silence split as Lucifer rasped, “Come to collect your brother, Dean?”

Dean bared his teeth. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

Lucifer’s smirk should have sent them running, but Castiel stubbornly planted his feet. He would not fail Sam again. “He’s not supposed to be alive, either, but I don’t suppose you're going to leave him where he’s ‘supposed to be.’ Judge, jury, executioner, and King. You must be very busy.”

“I am. Which is why I’ll take my brother and go now. Lots to do.” Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel caught Crowley’s eyeroll.

Lucifer glanced down at their joined hands, lip curling. “You really thought you would just walk in here and order me around like some common servant? Your sovereignty does not exist here, maggot.”

“I figured I’d try the diplomatic method first.”

Castiel held back a sigh. It seemed their months of hardships had not dampened Dean’s sarcastic nature. “Did you really think you could disrupt the order of the afterlife and no one would notice?”

Lucifer seemed to hesitate at that, his features freezing in place for a moment before a smirk appeared, eerily reminiscent of Crowley. “I’m shaking. What justice do you plan to enact, Castiel?”

Castiel glared. He did not exactly intend to give the Angel currently holding Sam hostage a dirty look, but it was more of a reflex than anything.

“The point is, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but Sam’s not staying here. Either you get to hand him over to us, or we call your friends up on high and _they_ come get him.”

Lucifer let out a sharp, “Ha! Prince or no, your brother isn’t worth anything to them, especially not now that… well, you see him.”

Castiel stared at Sam, his friend, his brother, eyes unfocused. He’d fought so hard and still ended up here. What was to prevent he and Dean from ending up the same?

Dean continued talking to the Angel, voice hard and angry, but Castiel was not listening. He could not look away from Sam, golden, kind, energetic, fighting, hoping, falling, lost, broken, gone. Castiel’s fault.

 _I tried,_ he thought. He’d tried.

His gaze slid to the right, finding Crowley’s smug, bastard face. Back to Sam. Crowley. Lucifer was standing from his seat, great white wings flapping behind him.

 

 

“You're going to return Sam to us,” Castiel said, voice soft.

Lucifer paused. “We’ve been over this.”

“No. You're going to free Sam because you owe us. Owe Dean, specifically.”

“Uh, really? Last time I checked, your whore of a King killed my son, so.”

“Last time I checked, your son was planning on killing _you_ the first chance he got. We did you a favor. You have no basis for taking Sam or keeping here, but if you give him back we’re more than willing to let bygones be bygones.”

Dean’s mouth quirked up, but his hand tightened painfully on Castiel’s. Crowley’s face blanched as Lucifer turned his head to his son with predatory slowness.

Crowley recovered and sneered, “You have no proof.”

“What was it you said, exactly? You wouldn’t bother, except you needed him in Eureva in order to kill him and take his power? I believe you deemed it a ‘win-win.’” Castiel turned to Lucifer. “Not for you, obviously.”

Lucifer cocked his head to the side, the gesture itself making Crowley shrink in his seat. “That does rather sound like something you would say, my boy.”

“And your journals,” Dean interjected. “Think we wouldn’t find those?”

Castiel held his breath.

Lucifer whirled back on them, eyes narrowed. “Interesting. I do so hate Michael, but I doubt _he_ cares about me keeping one of his whelps here. Especially if he’s not an heir.” Lucifer sat, shedding feathers as he flopped. “Let’s see. What’s fun? I don’t like Crowley right now, and he’s stuck here for forever again. It’d really grind his gears to see you skip off into the sunset and reassume the throne he worked _so hard_ to steal from you. And if you’ve come all this way you're not leaving without—” Lucifer waved a hand towards Sam “—him. But, oh, he’s broken. You’ll leave with an empty shell and try your whole life to fix him, I expect. _That’s_ fun. Okay, take him. Don’t get killed on the way out.”

Dean blinked. “That’s it?”

“Better go before I change my mind.”

Dean jolted into action, releasing Castiel and darting towards his brother. The chains were dissolved and Dean hauled Sam up by the forearm.

This had to be a trick. Castiel narrowed his eyes at the Angel, who only smirked slightly.

Perhaps he’d kill them the second they turned around. Or perhaps he was counting on Castiel’s suspicion, wanted the satisfaction of knowing they’d always be looking over their shoulders.

Sam got to his feet. Castiel suspected if he’d been alive they wouldn’t have held him, but as it was he showed no signs of life, eyes focused on the Nothing over Dean’s shoulder, at Castiel. He did not get the impression that Sam was staring _at_ him as much as he was just staring. Maybe after all this time, the Nothing was all he could see.

Dean looked at Lucifer. Lucifer rolled his eyes. Dean looked at Crowley and rolled his eyes. Sam looked at nothing. Castiel felt the situation was becoming more awkward than intense or scary and it was time for them to go.

They left, Dean loosely holding his brother’s wrist, Castiel leading the way. Silence fell once more as they walked, and walked, days and days and there was silence until the red line of the frozen ground came into view.

“Remember,” Castiel rasped once the ground under his feet was slippery, boots slick with blood, “you can’t let go of him until we reach the mortal plane— the Brenna Sea. He’ll return to his body on his own at that point.”  
“Is this normal?” Dean responded, equally hoarse, “The not talking and stuff.”

Castiel studied Sam, whose eyes remained unseeing, limbs limp aside from his stiff legs. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t think that’s normal.”

 

 

Dean wasn’t sure what to make of everything that had happened. Most of it was a long blur of fighting and killing and hoping, hoping for Sam and now that he was back it all seemed wrong. Dean didn’t want to think about what Lucifer could have done to him all those months, but it was clear Sam was traumatized, and Dean didn’t know how he was supposed to fix it. If he even could.

So he walked. In silence. The Demons left them alone; Cas wondered if they were busy amassing an army. Dean thought they’d either given up or were too afraid of them to try anything.

He felt heavier on the way back. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

When he’d stepped into that horrible place, that endless empty, he’d felt… hollow. Unreal. Like that empty had become him. Like he’d never left. Maybe that was what Sam felt.

He didn’t want to feel it. The physical silence had been enough without the echo now in his soul.

Dean reached a hand in front of him and seized Cas’ as it swung back, barely holding on by the tips of his fingers. Cas didn’t let go. Dean closed his eyes and kept walking. He could keep walking, to bring Cas home, bring Sam home, and maybe he’d get home too.

 

 

The thing about the Dead Lands was that the entire place was dead. Even the good parts were full of dead, and that was slightly depressing. Dean stepped into the forest that marked the border between the Jubilant State and the State of Suffering, and he felt just as intensely tired and full of dead as he had amidst the screaming souls.

The ground was much softer, though. Dean felt rude for coming in and tracking blood all over the green pine leaves and soft moss. The fact that Sam still did not speak was freaky, but not as freaky as the fact that his feet made no sound.

It would be fine, Dean kept telling himself. They’d go home and Sam would be alive and _fine._

Though they hadn’t so much as seen anything to attack them so far, Cas’ shoulders slumped and he stepped back, securing their hands and resting his cheek on Dean’s shoulder.

So close. They were so close.

“Dean,” Cas whispered, “What if my mother is there?”

Dean sighed. He had no idea what to expect from Cas’ mom, having never met her, but he prayed she’d react well to… everything. They had about 20 years worth of stories to catch up on, and despite Maria herself actively breaking the law for a five years, they had taken things to a very dangerous next level. Also that time Dean threw Cas in jail and that other time he broke his wrist. Dean was very much looking forward to talking about that with her, actually.

“Then… I don’t know? What do you want to happen?”

Cas nuzzled his nose into Dean’s shoulder. “How did you know what to say to your mother?”

“I didn’t, but she’s my mom so I don’t think there’s a ‘right thing’ to say to her. It’ll be fine.”

“What if she’s disappointed in me?”

“Then she’s dead and it doesn’t matter.”

“Dean.”

“I don’t think her being disappointed in you is even a possibility, Cas. You're kind of the best.”

“I’m going to tell her you broke my arm.”

“You're really gonna tell your mom on me? That’s low, Elliot. Really low.”

Cas smirked, a quickly fading expression. “Do you think Jess and Alex are alright?”

Dean glanced at Sam. Nothing. Not even a blink. “Probably. They’re kind of a big deal over there, they’re in good hands.”

“I miss them.”

Dean sighed. He’d been trying not to think about everyone in Lavendel, Jess, his nephew, Charlie, Bobby, even _Meg._ He missed Jess’ bouncy curls and teasing, the baby and his tiny yawns and microscopic fingers. He wanted to be back. He wanted to be a family.

“Me too, Cas. Me too. We’ll be home soon.”

Cas squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

 

 

Four figures stood on the beach.

Castiel’s heart froze. Dean’s mother. Dean’s father. His mother.

His father.

He’d never met his father, who’d died before he was born, killed by Crowley’s soldiers for rebelling against the monarchy. Not just Crowley, but the monarchy as a whole. The same monarchy Castiel would be marrying into. He’d asked for just his mother for a reason.

Mary beamed as they drew near, her eyes eagerly scanning Sam’s face. She drank in his features, the height, his hair, his eyes. He looked nothing like Dean, but each of them looked like their parents in their own way.

Castiel’s gaze slid past her to his own mother. After so many years, he’d forgotten her face, but he knew the sight of her crying was a new one. Her hair was several shades lighter than his, but her blue eyes were a perfect match. She was lovely.

His father stood next to her, arms crossed and brows raised. Castiel might as well have been looking in the mirror, as the man before him bore the same nose, same eye shape, same hair, same general facial structure as his son.

“Castiel,” Marie said, stepping forward and wiping at her eyes. “I’ve— I’ve missed you so much.”

“Mom,” he choked out, realizing too late that he was crying as well.

Mary reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “We all have much to talk about.”

“Stand down, Princess,” Jedediah snapped. Dean narrowed his eyes. Mary did not falter.

“Do you disagree? You have nothing to talk about with your son? Nothing to say?”

Jedediah glared at her. John glared at him. Marie sighed.

“Okay,” Dean said, slapping on a smile that masked the sudden violence in his eyes. Castiel was not a fan of this smile. “Well, shall we sit, then?”

“Do you mean shall _you_ sit?”

“Jedediah,” Marie scolded. Castiel took a breath.

“We’ll all sit. In fact, Dean will sit last.”

“Really?”

_“Dean.”_

“I wasn’t objecting, I just don’t think it’s a constructive solution.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and plopped on the ground. Mary and Dean indeed sat last. Sam had to be tugged down, seeming unwilling to move.

“Boys,” Mary said with a smile unnervingly similar to Dean’s, “you ought to have quite the story to have ended up here.”

Castiel chuckled. “You could say.” Jedediah cleared his throat. Castiel glanced at him, tightening his grip on Dean’s hand. “Just say what you need to say, please.”

Castiel’s father narrowed his eyes at him. Marie sighed, long-suffering. Mary barely concealed a glare— John didn’t even try.

“Just wondering if your mother taught you anything,” Jedediah spat, “about the Campbells-on-high and their skewed idea of running a country.”

“No, actually, at five years old I wasn’t receiving any education about politics, somehow.”

“Cas, you don’t have to—”

“Does he pay you to warm his bed?”

Dean clenched his jaw, grip tightening. “Could I pay _you_ to—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Castiel and John advised at the same time.

Dean huffed, nostrils flaring. “Fine. You don’t know anything about me, dude.”

“I know that you're in power only because you’ve got fancy royal blood and a big head.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel defended, lifting his chin. “Dean changed the lives of everyone in Lavendel long before he even knew his heritage. He was the best Captain of the Guard Eureva had ever seen and everyone loved him. Then he organized an overly successful rebellion. Only… one casualty,” Castiel explained, with a glance at Sam. “Regardless of his parentage, we would have made him our leader after overthrowing Crowley anyway.”

Dean smirked slightly. Jedediah rolled his eyes.

“So,” Marie ventured, “tell us everything.”

 

 

Dean’s knee shook. Sam stood still. Castiel’s fingers danced across the railing.

Anticipation thrummed through each of their veins. Or, well, both of their veins. Sam had no veins. He also didn’t seem very excited, but that was all good. He’d be alive soon and it would be okay.

Home. They were going home. Dean could see the Brenna Sea on the horizon, the end of hovering spectors and cloudy skies, safe water and the promise of a long sleep when they returned.

Dean glanced at Cas. He’d been distant the entire boat ride home. Dean understood. He’d thought a lot about everything Jedediah had said, too, and to be honest his ideas weren’t half bad. He’d given Dean a long lecture about how if he was so sure the people _wanted_ him as their leader, why doesn’t he let them vote. Dean kind of liked the idea, but Mary hadn’t been sure the people were ready for such an intense change in government, especially since the reign was rocky already. Jedediah had rolled his eyes, which Dean took to mean as agreement.

However, Dean had already been thinking about changes. He’d mentioned appointing leaders of individual cities to Cas so long ago, and now that he thought about it, it would make much more sense to have the people living in the cities choose who to represent them. Dean didn’t know the people in those cities.

So much. There was so much to do.

When they crossed the border from the Boiling Ocean, Dean closed his eyes. He glanced to his left. Sam was gone. He opened his hand, fingers twitching slightly.

Dean heaved a sigh, eyes closed, and turned to Cas, pulling him against him and sighing. “Can we just lay on this deck and sleep until we wash ashore?”

“You realize we have to steer the boat now?

Dean groaned. “You do it.”

“You never taught me.”

“But I love you.”

“Steer the boat.”

 

 

Dean didn’t even bother docking the boat. He just chucked the rope at the first person he saw and jumped onto the deck. Cas climbed down sensibly and without risk of twisting his ankle.

Then they ran.

The reappearance of the King and his lover racing through the street sans Prince was enough to inspire the people of Revelan to clear a path. The sight of the same couple crashing into each other as they reached the door was enough to make them worry about the country.

Dean stumbled into the living room, Cas on his heels. Bobby and Charlie stood before Sam’s coffin, eyes filled with silver. “Is— is he—”

“He’s alive,” Bobby said gruffly, “but—”

Dean closed his eyes and approached the coffin.

Nothing

had

changed.

Sam remained prone on his back, hands folded on his stomach and eyes gazing at the ceiling.

Dean sank to his knees, resting his head against the dark wood.

He thought it would be okay once he was alive.

Sometimes people don’t get fixed, he guessed. Sam was supposed to be dead, anyway.

_Should’ve been you._

“Dean,” Cas whispered, “it’s not over. We can help him, somehow.”

“Nothing short of a miracle can help him now, Cas, and you know it.” Dean responded, not recognizing his own voice.

They all knew.

“Maybe—”

“Doesn’t he deserve better?” Dean looked up, past the ceiling and the sky, as if he could see the Angels lounging around up there, making empty promises and not bothering to help anything for half a second. “Everyone’s so grateful for whatever bullshit I’ve accomplished, but none of it would have gotten done without Sam. What about what he’s accomplished? It’s not _fair._ ”

No one said anything. Dean took a breath.

“I’m not going back to Lavendel without Sam. I will sit in this spot until he gets up and says something stupid like ‘What happened?’ and we go home together. Do you hear that, you bastards? I’m not running your dumb country without my brother, Michael! It’s not happening! What have _you_ done without _your_ brothers? Nothing! Ever! _Make him better.”_

“Dean.”

Dean did not recognize that voice, so he turned.

He was getting a little bit tired of Angels.

The one standing before him did look a weird amount like him, but that did not make Dean want to see him any more. Michael wore a similar outfit to the armor Gabriel had worn, though his chest plate displayed a different symbol. His wings were tucked in neatly over his shoulders and boasted a rich bronze.

No one so much as twitched.

“If you're not here to help then leave.”

Cas sighed and planted his face in his hands.

“I am here to help, Dean. I’m proud of you. You're the future, kid. Future of the whole world. And if you need Sam to make this place what it needs to be, then I can help him.”

Dean blinked. “What are you gonna do?”

Michael shrugged. “It’s easy. I’ll wipe his memory.”

“You can just do that?”

Michael sucked in a breath. “Not easy. There’s… well, there’s a chance his whole mind will be wiped. But you can either have an empty brother or an amnesiac brother who can relearn everything. Or, of course, it could work and you’d have Sam just the same as before his death.”

Dean looked to Cas, who was glaring at Michael. Of course he was. Bobby was staring at the floor and Charlie very much seemed like she did not want to be there.

Dean stood and looked his brother, brushing his ridiculous hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, okay, but if it doesn’t work I’m going to kill you.”

Michael smirked. “I suppose you will. Step aside.”

Dean stepped back, into Cas, who wrapped an arm around his chest protectively. Dean laced his fingers through Cas’ and held his breath as Michael stepped up to his brother and rested his fingertips on his forehead.

Golden light filtered out over the edges of the coffin. Dean squeezed Cas’ forearm.

Dean was continually shocked at the speed in which things kept happening. They’d spent, like, five minutes talking to Lucifer and now Michael, his ancestor and King of Literally Everything, was fixing his brother with a flash of light and fancy fingers.

Michael turned his head, winked, and was gone.

Cas released Dean, but once again no one moved.

Sam sat up, blinking.

He turned to Dean. “What happened?”

 

  


**Epilogue**

 

 _“_ _There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.”_

 

_-Frank Herbert_

 

Dean doubled over, clutching his stomach and groaning, “Angels, Alex, no need to throw it so hard.”

Alex giggled, lifting the ball from the ground at Dean’s feet. “Uncle Dean, you're kind of a baby.”

Dean opened his mouth in mock outrage. Cas laughed, the sunlight glinting off the crown on his head while Alex, still giggling, ran towards Jess, who was bouncing her daughter on her hip.

“You are kind of a baby, Dean. Yesterday you stubbed your toe and cried.”

“That is a _lie,_ Castiel.”

“Uh, Dean, I was there,” Sam reminded from where he lay on the grass. How Alex hadn’t trodden all over him was a mystery. “And you definitely cried.”

“Yeah, whatever, you overgrown loaf of bread.”

“That’s a new one. What kind of tree does bread grow on?”

The palace grounds were clear except for the guards at the gates. The royal family lounged about, gold and silver crowns perched haphazardly on heads or resting on a certain troll’s face as said troll laid on the ground.

“Bobby, would you hold Grace for a second? Alex is digging.”

Bobby rolled his eyes but accepted the baby. “Let the boy dig.”

Dean glanced to the woods, the trees ripe with unshed fall leaves. He and Cas’ second wedding anniversary was tomorrow. The trees had looked exactly the same until they’d kissed and a gust of wind blew, knocking the leaves down and showering everyone in gold and red and yellow.

He turned to his husband, reaching out a hand. “Hey. Walk?”

Cas took his hand. “If you insist.”

“No need to sound so grumpy, Your Majesty.”

“No need to call me Your Majesty, Your Majesty.”

“You guys suck, go away.”

“Shut up, Sam. We’ll be back.”

Dean tugged Castiel along, marching off to the closest path through the woods. He patted his thigh to assure his sword was still strapped to his belt.

“Hey, Cas?”

Cas turned to him, the light framing his head like a halo. “What is it?”

“I’m really happy I broke your arm.”

Cas smiled, a sight Dean never tired of, especially after so long waiting to see it. “I’m glad you broke my arm as well, Dean.”

“Maybe for our anniversary I should break your leg.”

“You’d have to be arrested for treason.”

“Drat.”

Cas shook his head, staring off into the distance. “How did you even do that?”

“Break your wrist? It’s pretty easy.”

“But without me noticing.”

Dean laughed, stopping and spinning so they faced each other. Dean took his wrist and placed the back of his hand against his stomach. “Hurt?”

“It’s not comfortable, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Right, but when I put my hand there and press down—”

_“Ow.”_

“Imagine if i put my entire body weight there. That would hurt.”

Cas wiggled his arm away. “I know that, obviously. I feel strangely at peace now.”

Dean grinned and kissed him. “Yeah, me too.”

 

 


End file.
